#i don’t know much about tailors so its kinda vague but yeah!!!!

[stormyelliotwritez]

Could do something with Deadpool and a male reader tailor?

Wowww, im posting twice in one day! And hehehehe, yeah, i can

Dating Wade as a tailor!!!

You patch up his suit whenever he gets bullet holes and stab wounds and he loves telling you stories about them while you do it

He steals your sewing stuff to make you little creatures when he’s bored (my boy can canonically sew so ya)

If you have a shop, he spends all his free time there and usually ends up playing with all the fabrics in the store room

He squeals happily whenever you make him clothes or darn his clothes like his favourite hoodie

He loves how you look when you’re concentrated and he could stare at you forever

He loves buying you sewing stuff all in red and black so you guys match

You always sign your work but whenever you make something for him, you add a little heart and he loves it and he runs his fingers over it when he’s away from you on jobs

You guys are the cutest couple coz you’re always matching pretty much

He’s a messy sewer so he starts watching you sometimes and then practicing when he’s alone and he’s so happy when he gives you a shirt he’d sewn and the lines are all neat

He’s so adorable and he calls you The Tailor when he’s talking about you so people don’t find out who you are and so they can’t hurt you but he always reminds you that you’re his, you’re his tailor and he loves you so much

[thetriggeredhappy]

can I request sniper and scout planning a little secret symbolic wedding for themselves? its just self indulgent, since they wanna have this connection so they do a tiny intimate thing for the two of them but then all the two teams show up, ms pauling, sniper's parents and scout's family to celebrate too, and they all have a happy day

i dunno if this one will be coherent or and i dont have a joke for ya so thats where we’re at today

(no warnings)

-

He notices Scout looking at things just a little longer. Scout was a man of motion, of emotion, of elation, so seeing him pause, ever, for any length of time, was enough to pique Sniper’s interest. It had to be a big deal, of Scout was looking at it, and he prided himself on being observant.

So seeing the things he paused in front of—jewelry stores, boutiques, flower shops, at first it confused him, but then he saw what Scout was looking at in them. The flower shops had pretty arrangements right in front, labeled vaguely in some with phrases like ‘arrangements for your special day!’ and less vaguely in others as ‘wedding arrangements available’. The boutiques often with white dresses towards the front, and pictures of smiling couples nearby.

Little cards in the display of the jewelry store window proclaiming ‘engagement rings’.

It didn’t take long to piece together.

A number of issues were present. The concept of legal marriage alone was a big one. First because they were two men, one of whom was shaky in terms of immigration and two of whom were shaky in terms of being legally defined as criminals of the highest degree, potentially legally dead in some ways, and certainly smart enough to not walk into a courthouse. Besides that, the paperwork involved, the idea of getting either of their families around when Scout’s family was constantly on the wind in at least one corner and his own hardly on speaking terms with him, the heartbreak—

But Scout paused when he looked at the engagement rings.

Sniper was increasingly exasperated and helpless against the little voice in his head that seemed to watch out for Scout’s well-being, that said, well, couldn’t he at least try and figure something else out?

So it took some thinking. Some rehearsing his words in his own head. Some justifications being made, torn down, analyzed and readdressed with a clearer mind. And he came to a decision.

And when he next got the chance, he called his mum and had a talk with her about a lot of things, so many of them at least a decade and a half in the making. And she didn’t understand, not at all, not on that first phone call, not on the second. But on the third she took care to assure him that she would try, she really would, she really would, and finally gave him permission to use the old family heirloom engagement ring.

And it was subtle and sudden when Sniper proposed. Scout was sat on the steps of the camper, using Sniper’s pocket knife to pick mud out of the soles of his shoes, and Sniper took a seat next to him, plonked a pair of bottles between them. Scout leaned over to bump their shoulders together, grinning at him, and Sniper smiled too, started drinking his own.

Out clear on the horizon line, most of the clouds hadn’t quite blown far enough to obscure the sun. It would be setting soon, and then Scout would be off to eat with the rest of the team and Sniper would get to his own routine. It was a nice night, though.

Finally Scout flicked the knife closed, tucked it into his pocket best he could, reached for the bottle still sitting next to him, popped it and started drinking before it could foam over (he didn’t know how it always did that, he just had awful luck, apparently).

Sniper finished his own drink before Scout could get very far into his own. Stared out across the desert.

“You good?” Scout finally asked, picking idly at the label. “You seem, uh... I dunno. Sad, maybe. One’a those?”

“No, er... just...” Sniper tried, cleared his throat. Now Scout’s eyebrows were raised. “Nervous, is all.”

“Oh, one’a those,” Scout said, and frowned when Sniper shook his head again, drawing a hand down his face, taking a deep breath. “Is... is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Sniper nodded, took another deep breath. “Yeah. Just...”

He paused for a long few moments. Reached to fish through the pocket of his vest, held his closed fist out to Scout. Scout freed up a hand to hold a hand out, palm-up, still frowning, and pulled it back to look at the item Sniper had dropped in his palm.

Blinked. Blinked. Sniper gulped, wishing he had a drink still, something to help with how dry his mouth had gone all of a sudden, watching Scout’s expression carefully.

“Oh,” Scout whispered. Barked a laugh, like shock more than humor, the volume abrupt. “Oh.”

Sniper gulped hard again, looked away, looked back. Scout’s expression didn’t change in the time he wasn’t watching it. “You seem, er... surprised,” Sniper said carefully.

“Well, yeah, duh, yeah, I didn’t—“ Scout said all in a stumbling rush, and took a breath, and seemed to hold it. His eyes hadn’t moved from the ring since he first saw it. He blinked a few times, barked that laugh again. “I didn’t think you’d want...”

“I do,” Sniper said, voice tight, and Scout looked up at him for the first time in a while, and his eyes widened in even more surprise.

“Oh, shit,” he said quickly, seeming to finally register the nervousness, the fear, the worry, and he surged forward, hands on Sniper’s shoulders, one wrapped in half a fist around the ring. “I, yeah, yes, I, yes to the—yes! I’m—“

And then he kissed Sniper, hard, almost bruising, and it didn’t get particularly far before it was broken by another huff of air against Sniper’s lips, and when he pulled back Scout’s grin was a little weak.

“Just never thought you’d ask me, not in a million years,” he admitted.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry,” Sniper teased, entire body awash with a sense of relief.

“Oh, fuck off, you’re the one with the watery eyes here,” Scout scoffed, and kissed him again.

And they both made sure to note that they knew there were more conversations to be had, but those could wait until both of them had a clearer head again, which took damn near a week and a half, both so much more giddy than they’d expected to be, then another week when Sniper next saw the ring, hung on a little chain usually tucked beneath Scout’s shirt, worn around his neck apparently since the day he got it.

He liked the word fiancée more than he’d expected to, and he’d expected to like it a lot, and even then, Scout seemed to like it even more.

And Scout admitted half his surprise up front had been because he himself had no real idea how this was going to work, it was just that the idea of being married made him really really happy. He liked weddings, loved weddings, loved the idea of... of settling into something. That really, marriage was the only kind of settling down that he’d ever liked the idea of. And even if it was just... just something quiet, just the two of them, that was fine by him.

And Sniper had nodded, and there had been a pause, but then suddenly Scout spoke up again with a ‘but, I mean, my Ma is always going on about wanting to see me get married, so I kinda have to invite her to whatever we do’.

That was a good start for the plans they had. No particular pressure on it, really, considering they decided not to tell anyone at first. Sniper started trying to figure out where might be a good place to hold... something, maybe not a whole ceremony, but something. Scout started trying to figure out where to get a suit, and where Sniper could get his own tailored, but they weren’t in a rush, and a few months passed without making much progress at all, nothing even feeling like it had changed except that now Sniper would catch Scout fidgeting with the chain he kept the ring on and grinning.

The first real change came when someone else noticed too.

Pyro, stood in-between matches and pointing at the chain around Scout’s neck as he switched into a less charred shirt and mumbling a question, made Scout stammer. Scout stammering made most of the team turn to look. Then more of them saw the chain there, saw the ring there, and some of the more perceptive ones pieced together a few things rather quickly. It was Demo who first said something, outright asking ‘is that an engagement ring?’.

A beat of silence where all were frozen, then the voice over the intercom rang out telling them they had ten seconds until battle, and Scout was off like a shot towards the gate.

In his absence, eyes turned to Sniper instead, who proved to be even less helpful in that he stuttered his way through all ten of those seconds and the team had no choice but to follow Scout’s lead and leave it for later.

Sniper was hoping that he’d be able to escape the team’s questions after battle if he could make it through the Resupply room before everyone else did. But he realized very quickly that would also mean throwing Scout to the proverbial wolves, and besides that, he couldn’t run from this forever. So instead he kicked around the Resupply for a few minutes waiting for the team to come back from chasing down the other team in the humiliation round, and wasn’t entirely surprised when Scout was one of the first back, expression tight with nerves up until the exact moment that Demo and Soldier came wandering in, elbowing at each other and chatting at well above speaking volume.

Neither of them, apparently, had much to say, besides Demo clapping Sniper hard on the shoulder and proclaiming that it took them long enough, and Soldier brushing off their ‘fraternizing nonsense’ in favor of continuing his argument with Demo. Pyro was in the room next, talking and gesturing enthusiastically, and while Scout was trying to translate to Sniper the Engineer came in and shoo’d Pyro along, telling them to mind their business, albiet with what Sniper would almost refer to as a proud smile aimed in Scout’s direction. Medic and Heavy were in the room next, and all that Heavy seemed to be confused about was the legality surrounding marriage between anyone besides a man and a woman in the United States, with Medic attempting to explain but also largely clueless to the actual logistics of the thing. Spy only stuck around long enough to quip that it was a little ridiculous for any of them to worry about legality of all things, which Sniper wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret.

Demo, across the room, in the middle of trying to unstick his jacket from himself with all the mud coating one side of it, quipped that he’d better be invited, and asked what he had to do to get the best man position. From there, a series of what Sniper interpreted as mostly jokes followed, the team chiming in about their attendance, including a number of them laughing that they weren’t exactly allowed in any churches and Pyro insisting that they wanted to be the one throwing the flowers (and no they would not in fact set any on fire) and Heavy saying that if they couldn’t find a good glass to stomp on then Medic had plenty of spare beakers that he wasn’t using for anything, much to the doctor’s protest.

This became the team running joke for a while, was everyone constantly bringing up the wedding. When Spy stomped into the room fuming because of another perfectly good shirt ruined by the base’s washing machine, the Engineer quipped that oh no, what would he wear to the wedding now? When Soldier got into an argument with Pyro, Demo referred to it as a spat between groomsmen. When Sniper was acting particularly cranky one day (not his fault, the base’s coffee machine was awful and they really needed to replace it one of these days), Spy muttered into his tea that it was a shame Scout had to put up with such a bridezilla, a joke Medic chortled about well into the afternoon.

It might have gotten out of hand around the time that poor Pauling had to hear about it, just trying her best to oversee delivering a set of brand new weapons and explaining their assorted bells and whistles, accosted through her entire explanation by jokes that this was a bit extravagant for a wedding gift, that hopefully she’d at least get time off to attend the reception, that competition for maid of honor wasn’t exactly steep but she’d probably be winning anyways, until finally she snapped that if Sniper and Scout were actually going to get married then they needed to note that on their upcoming contract renewals but to otherwise stop talking to her about it so damn much.

This, Scout said, is when he started feeling bad for not talking to his Ma about it yet. Miss Pauling knowing he was getting married before his own mother felt wrong, he said, and so he spent the afternoon steeling himself to make the phone call.

From the combination of relief and vague dismay on Scout’s face when he came back, Sniper could tell something was up, and it was with a number of pauses in the middle of speaking that Scout explained that he’d barely gotten through the news before Ma had started calling over various brothers to tell them the news too, each taking a turn on the phone to get halfway through some kind of third degree that they needed to pass along to Sniper before actually congratulating him, each asking when they’d need to get down there for the wedding in turn. Apparently he’d accidentally called when some of his brothers were over for dinner, and so he explained to Sniper that word was as good as out, because as much as he loved his brothers, not a single one of them could keep their mouths shut to each other.

And so they both sat down with a calendar and had to pick an actual date for a wedding.

Altogether, the date they picked was a little over a year since Sniper proposed, which felt appropriate, and only a few months from then, just long enough for Scout’s brothers to get time off of work. They decided against a whole entire proper ceremony with a priest and vows and all, mostly because legality being an issue, they didn’t have much a reason to stick to tradition. A few things would end up sticking, though. They’d have seating, because Sniper’s mum wasn’t up for standing around for long periods of time anymore and one of Scout’s brothers had that bad leg and cane from his time in the army. They’d dress up for it, because Scout was truly looking forward to that part, to looking nice on the actual day. Vows weren’t necessarily going to be on-script, but they’d both take a moment to say something to each other, and there would be a kiss, and then they’d have a bit of time set aside for if either of their families brought up any traditions they truly wanted to do. And, of course, there’d be some kind of party afterwards, because they both knew that the team would make there be a party afterwards either way.

What they didn’t expect was how quickly the team jumped to help as soon as they mentioned they’d set an actual date in stone to some degree. The Engineer was quick to offer to help with setting up chairs and tables, carting things around if they needed it, having a truck and all. Soldier was happy to offer suggestions for if they wanted catering, having eaten at and subsequently been banned from every eatery in the county, and Pyro started baking at an until then unprecedented clip as they tried to find the exact right recipe for a good wedding cake because they had to have a wedding cake and it had to be perfect. Heavy, to his credit, pointed out a few logistical issues with having the wedding, namely that it couldn’t be anywhere on the base and that they weren’t allowed in the town of Teufort, and Demo was so kind as to offer up his own house and property, given that it had so much space and he knew his mother wouldn’t mind it and besides that, it was a very pretty place.

And then Spy found in the mail the magazines Sniper was looking through when trying to pick out something suit-adjacent, and he could tell Spy was gearing up to really lay into him about it before Sniper pointed out that Spy should really just stop snooping through other people’s mail, and by the next day he found a pair of order forms in his camper on the table, almost entirely filled out except for a few of the fields regarding things like the color of the suits and payment information.

And then he and Scout were trying on suits, and figuring out which hotels were close enough for Scout and Sniper’s families to stay in, and looking at flowers, and figuring out how many days they should schedule off of work and whether the team would be doing the same—

—and then it was the week before, and one night Sniper found himself standing in the camper with Scout, late at night, half-exhausted and stressed out and more terrified than he’d expected to be, arms tight around Scout’s waist. And Scout held on just as tight, and inhaled, and exhaled, shifting with that breath in Sniper’s grip. And Sniper found himself breathing out apologies, so quiet they didn’t quite catch against the grit in his voice, for causing such a fuss about all this, for things getting so out of hand. And Scout had laughed, had squeezed him tight in arms usually used for hurting people to instead give him so much comfort in that moment, and said that he wouldn’t want it any other way. Anything else and it wouldn’t exactly feel like them.

And the two days before the wedding stretched out infinitely, a mix of terror and impatience lacing his every move, and then the day of the wedding itself felt like it took no time at all.

The sun didn’t quite beat down upon them, a blessing even with them wearing simple vests as opposed to full suits, a scattering of cloud cover making the heat bearable and throwing the sunshine out away from them. And the grass around the DeGroot residence was slippery in the morning, slick under their shoes, and Sniper watched nervously across towards his mum and dad as his dad squinted suspiciously around at things and his mum patted him consolingly about only god knew what. And one of Scout’s brothers had brought a camera and was dashing around taking pictures, and most of the team had managed to dig up assorted formal wear, and the Engineer bustled trying to make sure everything was set up just right as Soldier helped Pyro with carrying the frankly ludicrous cake towards the table somewhere. And on one side was Scout’s family, all rowdy, and on the other was the team, even rowdier, his parents squashed between and being vaguely protected from the team by the more generally responsible ones (namely Heavy, who Sniper’s father clearly approved of in some way for being so imposing, and Spy, who Sniper’s mother approved of on the basis of him being entirely polite). And Miss Pauling was there much to Sniper’s surprise, claiming that she was meant to oversee off-base activities (although he suspected she just wanted the time off and was glad to watch the final nail go into the coffin of Scout’s long-gone infatuation with her). And Medic was so kind as to let Sniper know the other team had left a present at the base for them that morning—assuring him, at his alarmed look, that it was merely a prank dummy bomb set to tick as loudly as possible within the packaging, and a note thanking them for the free time off. That was as much a relief as the cloud cover.

And then the ceremony itself happened, so long before Sniper was ready, as if he could ever truly be ready. And he’d seen Scout’s vest already, but not worn, not standing across from him with a glitter in his eyes and a watery smile and hands fidgeting nervously with grip tape that wasn’t there, face red. And Sniper’s hands were sweaty and clammy, and his voice cracked from the very first word of what he had been rehearsing in his head over and over since he proposed, but the way Scout’s expression shone with pride and love had made so much of that nervousness disappear, and he couldn’t find it in him to be nervous, to worry about the team.

He didn’t have it written down, felt that note cards would make this feel stiff, and he wasn’t all that good at writing down his thoughts regardless. But Scout was sniffling by the end of it, and his own voice had gone rough as he just barely kept it together, so he at least knew he was doing something right. 
And Scout didn’t have anything written down either, and when his turn to speak came, there were a few long moments where Sniper worried he’d blanked, forgotten what he wanted to say. But Scout got there, voice surprisingly steady, surprisingly level. And he didn’t remember all of it, but he remembered some in the middle.

“I still can’t believe you love me, that you wanna stay with me for as long as we can, that you trust me and care about me,” Scout said, “but I’m gonna try, I’m gonna try so hard, and I’m gonna do whatever I gotta do to make sure you know I love you too, every single day, and to earn it. I promise. That’s what this is, is me promising. I promise.” 
And that’s when Sniper broke, the first tears falling, needing to wipe at his face gingerly with his sleeve and accompanied by a general ‘aww’ and chuckles from the crowd of loved ones gathered there, and Scout smiled all the wider.

And Sniper did end up stomping on a glass (not one of Medic’s beakers), and both of them were all but showered in assorted confetti by the family they’d somehow gathered over the years, and there was eating, and dancing, and drinking, and dancing, and by the time the sun started to set down beyond the horizon line he found himself stood there with Scout in the middle of it all, kissing him over, and over, and over again, each and every one a promise that he very much intended to keep, come what may.

“I love you,” he said, again, again, and Scout never once stopped smiling.

[ceruleanwhore]

Let’s talk about LoK’s shit worldbuilding

Technology is what I’ve seen the most people the most opinionated about, so that’s where I’ll start. Plenty of people out there share my opinion that having LoK be set in basically the American 20s is just some really shitty worldbuilding but I’ve also encountered plenty more who are of the opinion that since it’s technically possible, that means it’s good. For those who aren’t aware: just because something is technically possible does NOT make it good. AtLA is set in a more traditional fantasy world with a hard magic system where the setting, character design, and everything else are meant to feel older (even though this time it isn’t modeled after Europe). There is some technology in AtLA and what is shown works with the nature of their world and their society so it isn’t like, say, a lamppost from England being dropped right into this little fantasy world and disrupting things. The trains in Ba Sing Se are a perfect example of this with how they are operated by benders and also fit, visually, with the surrounding buildings and whatnot.

The issue with LoK is that it seems that there was no real thought around the development and incorporation of new technology in the context of the world. Instead, it’s as though they copied and pasted the American 20s in there and it’s really jarring. This would be the part where I said that just because it’s possible doesn’t mean it’s good writing- just because our industrial revolution was at breakneck speed doesn’t mean that having your fantasy world develop the same way is a good idea. For a little context, let’s compare this to the Lord of the Rings. Imagine that Christopher Tolkien one day decided to write a whole new four part series set a century after the end of Return of the King. So now, seemingly out of nowhere, boom, technology. Minas Tirith is basically 1920s Chicago, they have cars and stuff. And the thing is that there was a little bit of technology in LotR, just like with AtLA, so that is a fair comparison. 

Also, like I said earlier, it feels lazy with how they’re just throwing in some of these different types of technology. For example, a glove that electrocutes people with no explanation whatsoever on how it works doesn’t make sense. Not to mention, the fact that anything relies on lightning bending, which is SUPPOSED to be super fucking rare (more on that later) is beyond stupid. 

I think this reflects an ongoing issue with Korra where they clearly think that they should be trying to make things more “realistic” but either don’t realize or don’t care that in the process they’re wrecking that ‘fantasy’ feel their world used to have, which brings us to our next topic: people.

Just like how they decided to go the ‘realism’ route with a breakneck industrial revolution, they also decided to go that same route with homosexuality and, more importantly, homophobia. Friendly reminder that if you’re writing fantasy and you spice it some with some good, wholesome gay content, you DO NOT have to ruin it with fucking homophobia. It’s supposed to be fantasy, you dense fuck. It has its own problems but the Dragon Prince is an absolutely perfect example of how to write gayness in fantasy, i.e., perfectly common with zero homophobia to be seen. Writing it like Bryke did just to double down on “it’s been like 90 years since the war ended but did you know the Fire Nation is fucking TERRIBLE and Sozin is basically HITLER?” is weak, stupid, and fucking annoying.

The other thing I want to touch on is race. Basically, put whoever you want in your story and have them look however you want them to look but keep in mind that the way you do or do not introduce groups of people can affect the quality of your writing. What I mean is that with a fantasy universe like this, it’s all wysiwyg. When the gaang traveled around *the world* meeting and interacting with all kinds of people from all kinds of places in all 3 remaining nations (and showing memories of the air nomads that are now gone), that’s your chance to showcase all that wonderful diversity. By the end of the series, when their tour of the whole world is over, you should have a complete picture. 

Again, think about LotR for a second. By the end of Return of the King, you’ve encountered all the different types of men that ever existed in any of Tolkien’s writings (kinda sorta including the dunedain, and there’s even a reference or two in there with Aragorn tying that in all nicely), multiple kinds of elves, dwarves, goblins, hobbits, ents, huorns, the eagles, Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, the Nazgul, and multiple maiar (some good, some corrupt). The only race that hasn’t appeared in any of this that does exist in Tolkien’s other works is the valar but, otherwise, you, as the reader, along with characters like Frodo have been introduced to each and every race in middle earth, and, frankly, the Valar can be excused because they all are in the Undying Lands (plus Manwe might have been mentioned with the eagles.) Now, compare that to LoK where, with a Rowling level of retconning, they decided to just add some more races out of nowhere with no explanation 90 years or whatever after the original series. 

I just know that, for myself, I would’ve loved to see all this included from the beginning and incorporated into the original series and the travels of the gaang. Instead, we have it so AtLA is pretty set one way and then in LoK there’s just that one random dude with an afro and then, going into the comics afterwards, they decided to start incorporating different races in a way that feels like a JK Rowling tweet (“Hermione was black all along, even though I described her in the books as having light skin and picked a white actress to play her, I swear!”) So, basically, when you’re writing fantasy, you kind of have to include everything like that because that’s how the genre works and it’s not like in normal fiction where you can just have a black character without any explanation. Once again, the difference between how fantasy writing works and things being “realistic”.

As for realism, yanking the white lotus out into the open by their ear like an errant child is so unspeakably dumb and unrealistic. They’re a SECRET society who transcend the four nations and operate in SECRET jfc. After the war ended and the old folks home was no longer fighting the Fire Nation, the rest of them should’ve been able to go back into hiding no problem. But to drag their asses into this mess just to make them like Korra’s personal bodyguards and guards at high security prisons is so fucking stupid it hurts.

So then, to finish this up, let’s talk about bending. First off, there’s the issue of how bending forms have just… ceased to exist and/or been replaced with vague yet aggressive punching. Remember when Katara had to learn all those water bending stances and there was even a scroll of them? Or when Aang had to learn fire bending forms from Zuko? Well fuck that, now everyone can just punch at stuff instead. Never been able to airbend even with what should be proper form? Try waving your fist around!

The other thing is how so many of these characters are just “so naturally gifted” and can either successfully bend well with little to no experience or casually do stuff that’s supposed to be hella difficult. An example of the first point is Zaheer who just got his airbending like 3 days prior but suddenly can fucking fly and an example of the latter would be the blood bending, just all of it. That’s kind of another thing, though, how they’ve taken these things that were special and notoriously difficult and then watered them down and made it so literally everyone can do it. You know how lightning bending was a really cool thing only Ozai and Azula, the Fire Lord and princess who are both also known to be especially skilled benders, could do? Not anymore, now pretty much any fire bender with a pulse can shoot lightning out of their fingers. Same goes for blood and metal bending.

Also, can I just say that I’m mad at how pro bending was done? The earth bending stuff with the Boulder and all that worked because that framework of wrestling is really well suited to the element. Now, it’s what I’ve been saying where it’s like ‘oh yeah we can just put all the elements together in this boxing type shit because everyone in this fucking series can bend by punching, right?’ They had an awesome opportunity here to figure out different styles of fighting sports tailored to the different types of bending and they said ‘nope, fuck you’ and gave us that shit. Or just sports, in general, based around if the people playing and benders and, if so, what type of bending they have.

The last main thing with bending though is the absolute horseshit of harmonic convergence and kinda just season 2 in general. For starters, Korra getting her bending back because dead Aang was like “here ya go” was bullshit. I feel like it would’ve been better if that had been when Unalaq got introduced as her spiritual guide and, through working with him, she eventually was able to reach Wan, see his whole backstory like we got in episode 7, and then, afterwards, she could contact Raava directly and somehow with her get her bending back. Then, afterwards, she could go back to Republic City and give everyone their bending back and start helping with reconstruction from Amon. Season 2 doesn’t need a villain and it most certainly does NOT need that dumbass ‘dark avatar’ bullshit. 

Also, in terms of the air bending, seriously, fuck that shit. If air bending is going to come back then maybe, I don’t know, after following my other advice have Korra realize that not only can she take bending away (like Aang) but she can also give it so she could just go around to all the acolytes and make them airbenders. Or, if that would fuck up the balance or some shit, have her go around and make all the people who lost their bending to Amon into a fresh batch of air benders. You can’t really introduce something like energy bending and then expect us to believe that the only way to bring air bending back is for Aang to fuck a lot and then rely on following generations and subsequent incest, plus hc is fucking stupid when you have a character who can straight up just give people bending.

Oh and all that convergence shit brings up my last point of discussion, the way they retconned and fucked up the lore. Just like with what they did with lightning, blood, lava, and metal bending, they also decided to just do everything they could with those fucking turtles. Just like with Azula’s lightning bending, the entire fucking reason the lion turtle works so well is because of how it is so rare and special and all that so once you take that away, it doesn’t matter anymore smh. For most peope, champagne is special. You know why? Because most of us aren’t out here drinking the shit by the gallon every day. So yeah, between that and the way they threw away already established lore (that was further reinforced by experiences of characters in the show) makes it just a big old “yike”. All they had to do was fanagle a bit to keep Raava and Vaatu but ditch the whole hc shitshow and just maintain the parts that are already established.

[acelikesturtles]

“What’re You In For?”

Prompt: #22 (Two Miserable People at the same Wedding) - Raphael x Olivia

Warnings: Light Alcohol Mention, Cursing (duh, its Raphael)

Word Count: 1,568

A/N: This is from an ask game that I reblogged a couple days ago. It took me a while to finish editing it because I really and truly prefer quality of my work over quantity, plus I needed to find the right soundtrack for this so I could focus 110%. I hope you like it @headhalfling!

As much as Raphael cherished April as a friend and Casey as his “fourth brother”, he had despised almost every last moment of the last 8 hours. The tie around his neck was too tight and the suit that April requested be tailored to his exact measurements still felt like it was smothering him. When he had finished the first suit fitting at the lair he had figured that all it would take to break free from this prim and proper prison was a well-timed stretch. That is, until Leo had very gently patted him on the shoulder and reminded him that they were putting all these fancy trimmings on for April and Casey, and that after the "incident" at their engagement party, Raph would likely do better blending in.

Oh yeah, that.

As if the clothing and the standard wedding formalities weren't enough to bother Raph, he had promised April he would only have one glass of champagne after the last time. Out of respect (and maybe a fair deal of embarrassment) following the unforeseen events of the engagement party, he decided that it might be best to stay alert, especially since being a ninja and all doesn't really pay in hard cash. Or at least...not enough cash that could cover the fees associated with a professional carpet cleaner.

One finger lazily circled around the brim of his empty champagne glass. Amongst all the chatter in the room his eyes remained fixed on Casey and April. He couldn't tell if he was trying to read their lips and decipher whatever lovey-dovey conversation they were having or perhaps just trying to understand the ins and outs of the event in general. He couldn't really say that he'd ever felt in love, and maybe he was just being incredibly cynical, but this felt like a strange way to celebrate it; stuffy outfits and distant cousins you've only seen twice in your life didn't seem like a celebration of love or a union of two families but like a strange ritual that he couldn't quite wrap his mind around.

Just as his brain was finally translating something admittedly pretty juicy happening between the happy couple, someone shuffled past him and took a seat beside him, drawing his attention reluctantly away. She didn't seem to be paying him much attention, instead tapping away at her phone rather furiously with one hand while brushing stray strands of blue hair away from her eyes. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she set her phone face down on the table and grabbed the entirely unclaimed glass of champagne sitting in front of her place mat, then tapped her fingers rhythmically on the sides.

"What're you in for?" She said playfully then took a small sip from the glass.

He laughed, then leaned back in his chair. "Does 'best man' count?"

"Hey, sure, I'm not the police. Besides, I knew that already." Once again pushing her hair from her eyes, she crinkled her nose when she smiled. "You guys were, er, I guess--you are--kind of distinct. Kinda cool if you ask me."

She set the champagne glass back down, before gazing up at her new conversation partner. Her striking hazel eyes connected with his own and caused him pause for a moment. Again, full of surprises, she didn't seem to react in fear or shock so much as intrigue at his physical appearance. He couldn't say that this wasn't a first, all night long at both the engagement party and this reception he and his brothers had been getting unwarranted looks that definitely indicated the unspoken feelings of the person staring. This, however, was different. As for how, he wasn't quite sure, but for now he simply felt unusually awkward and unable to figure out what he was supposed to say next. Mikey was always the better one at socializing. It was in his blood. Raph on the other hand, despite all the time he had to learn, was about as good at talking to humans as a fish was at flying.

He glanced down at the name tag that had been so carefully placed in front of where she sat before taking a shot in the dark that maybe she was the table-mate that hadn't showed up yet. Awfully late for her to arrive now...but not impossible.

"Umm...are you Lorraine Bri-...Brinch-...you know what, fuck, not even trying to pronounce that."

"What?" She followed where his eyes led to the cutesy black and gold calligraphy neatly engraved on a piece of folded card stock. She frowned and shook her head. "No, that's not me. My name's Olivia. Does make me wonder who that is though, and why they didn't show up. Kind of disrespectful, to not even RSVP honestly."

"Well what about you?" Raph countered. As if he even cared about this random other woman's dignity when he didn't even know who she was beyond her impossible to pronounce last name. "I didn't see you until just now."

"I’ve been here,” she responded. She broke eye contact with Raph and began picking at the skin surrounding her fingernails. She had noticeably callused fingers which matched the overall aesthetic of her chipped and unpainted fingernails. “I just don’t really want to be here. I don't typically like stuffy events like this, as much as I'm really glad to see Casey and April together. These things make me anxious, and I would drive home, but that wouldn’t be cool because I’m the photographer’s ride." She gestured vaguely towards the woman in a pantsuit with long black hair that had been tirelessly capturing every last angle possible of the bride, groom, and bridal party.

"Hey, uh...me too." He answered. He was starting to feel anxious too seeing the way that she picked at her fingernails. “These events, they aren’t really for me. This tie ain’t doing it for me either, its kinda been choking me,” He gave her a small smile, hoping that it might ease her mind to have someone sympathize with her, even if it wasn’t entirely on the same page. Again, Mikey would’ve been better at this kind of thing than he was, but it helped that the connection between them was already sort of going well. Well, aside from him accusing her of being late to the wedding, that is.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed on his black and white striped tie. She pressed her lips together, holding back a smile while a short breathy laugh escaped her nostrils. “Well, there’s your problem. You tied it too tight, dummy. Here-”

Her callused hands reached up and began loosening the fabric fastened around his neck. Earlier when he had tied it himself he hadn’t bothered to ask for help, assuming that this was just how ties were supposed to feel, but the gradual feeling of relief that came with the freedom to move his neck like normal was ethereal.  While she couldn’t fix the constricting fit of his suit, having the tie a little looser was already helping him feel more relaxed and adjusted. Their eyes locked again as she gently pulled her hands away from the satin, although this time something felt different. Like he was sweating. Everywhere.

With the relief of one discomfort came the creation of another. He cleared his throat.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, anytime, I learned how to tie those for a friend of mine a couple years ago. You should’ve asked for help from somebody sooner.”

Now he was beginning to feel really embarrassed. Did she think he was stupid? Or incapable of learning how to do normal human stuff like tying a goddamn tie? “Nah, they’re busy, didn’t wanna bother ‘em.” Now that made him at least seem noble.

“Well you weren’t bothering me.” She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you would’ve bothered your brothers by asking for help, their ties don’t seem to be bothering them.

Fuck.

Still feeling sweaty, Raph shrugged and chuckled. “Awright, fine, then I’ll call you next time I gotta wear this damn thing, yeah?”

Once the words had escaped his mouth he realized how silly they must’ve sounded, but he didn’t take them back. He wasn’t an entirely socially inept fool, that was Donnie’s job. She paused for a moment at his words and began searching his eyes for an answer that he didn’t know he had in him. This was uncomfortable and sweaty and hot...but he kind of liked it. Raph swallowed and broke eye contact with her unceremoniously then twisted the watch on his left wrist back into center position.

“Maybe I will.”

Olivia reached into her silver crossbody that until now, had been closely kept by her side entirely untouched. She uncapped a black ballpoint ink pen and scribbled a string of numbers onto a blue sticky note that had already been lightly doodled on (likely during the ceremony) with rough sketches of motorcycles juxtaposed against delicate daisies and baby’s breath she had likely seen in April’s bouquet. She tore the sticky note off and nervously stuck it onto his placemat. With a quick swig of the rest of the champagne left in the glass she had claimed, she stood up from her chair and gave him one last smile before hurriedly heading off in the direction of her photographer friend, leaving Raph with more questions than he did answers.

Maybe this whole lovey-dovey shit wasn’t so dumb after all.

[beauvoyr]

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 20

decaying | 20 Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Rating: T+ Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership. Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories. CHAPTER SUMMARY: Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

YOU WEAR SUNLIGHT IN THE MOST RADIANT way. It dusts you in a gossamer glow; sunlight dripping off your body, glistening, luscious enough for anyone to lick the sunny sweetness from your skin. A guilty part of him liked you against a backdrop of black with stars clustering your hair and sleep-heavy eyes lidding low, but he has a newfound appreciation for the way the sun sheathes your skin in subtle extravagance, colouring you in ways artificial lighting couldn’t.

Pocketing his hands, Noctis observes how you underwent the same transformation he’s seen time and time again.

You dash up the Crystal Promenade, crossing crowded roads and marvelling at the magnificent stained glass streets sprawled under your sandals. The breeze picks up, sheer lace bouncing off your thighs, and cooing doves scatter into flight. You dart through pockets of space between the crowd, examine silvery timepieces displayed in Chopard, perking up at the street performers orchestrating a waltz with a cello, a violin, and an Electone. Prompto’s habit must’ve rubbed off on you, for you snapped a picture of some jolly bystanders waltzing along to the sentimental tune, and then a few more of the merry musicians tapping their feet in tandem.

“It’s Je Te Veux,” you tell him once he reaches your side, bright eyes all eager.

He’s never heard of that one before, but he can count on you and your endless database of classical music ingrained in that knotty head of yours. He makes a toneless sort of hum, realises it couldn’t be heard over the vibrato, and tries again. “What’s that?”

“Satie composed it.” You palm your phone to your chest, eyes trained on the graceful glide of the dancers having a good time with one another. The brilliance of your smile seems to fade for a second and Noctis wonders what’s up—that is until you seem intent on avoiding his eyes. “It means I want you.”

Oh. Oh.

There are no cymbals in the waltz, but Noctis is sure his heart is beating to the sound of a toy monkey clanging brass cymbals together. Jarringly loud in his ears, all clang clang clang like some annoying alarm in that morning Marlboro cartoon show. The sunny warmth is starting to get to him, reaching his ears, and he fights the awkward urge to have a stiff, long walk through Insomnia just to get away from the teasing lilt of the violin.

All Noctis does is to rub his nape in faux indifference. He too avoids your eyes.

“Hmm. I see.”

THE SHOP HE’S LOOKING FOR is housed in the upscale part of the city, all cobblestones fanned in russet reds, blossoming shrubs edging the walkways, iron scrollwork fencing the pavements. Prompto’s always skittish on the rare occasions when Ignis drags them here, needing to complete a grocery errand or two. Either one of the buttons on Noctis’ jacket had vanished and only DKNY carried specific silver buttons with monogrammed engravings, or he needed to replace one of his scandalous-looking shirt garters—the ones that fit around the curve of his thigh like some contraption for the kinky. Noctis isn’t judging, but he has his own suspicions about Ignis because who doesn’t?

Whatever, he’d rather not think about it now. He’d very much like to concentrate on how you’ve gone ahead with locating what he needed, pointing at a sun-bleached signboard hanging overhead.

“Is this the correct store?” You crane your neck to decipher the neon-lit swirls scrawled on the board juxtaposing deep stonewalls. “Vivienne Westwood?”

He comes to a stop before the broad, polished glass popping out on the sidewalk. “Yep, that’s the one.” Reflected, you and him: A vision in white and shrouded in black, your head tipped aside, him toeing the pavement. A wireframe mannequin models an assemblage of scarf, skirt, and matching heels, not that he knows anything about fashion. It’s just that he enjoyed watching your animated reflection scrutinising tortoiseshell sunnies perched on its head, hand on your chin. A corner of his lips slants upwards at the sight. “Most of us have our stuffs personally tailored, so, yeah. Either from Vivienne Westwood or Roen.”

You tiptoe a little to get a closer look at another pair of paisley sunglasses hanging by a string. “Kinda like personal tailors? Since you guys have fashion labels working for the royal family?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Why?”

“‘cause I noticed your boots have those pretty red soles,” you say matter-of-factly, pointing downwards to what seems to be his boots. Noctis gets that awkward feeling again, like some inside joke just went over his head. What does that have to do with anything when he’s out here with you? You’re not going to make him take off his shoes again, are you? Just to examine his toes, like some bizarre déjà vu of his first meeting with you? Thankfully, you seem to pick up on his confusion since you've gone ahead tilting your head with a smile. "Christian Louboutin, right?"

Yeah, he has no experience to go through this conversation. That’s up Ignis’ alley, not his. But he might have heard the name bounced back and forth during personal fitting sessions, might have something to do with a Loubouwhatever measuring his feet with tape. Safe to say, Noctis is just going to play along. “Uh—yeah. Personalized everything. Head to toe.” He pauses at your knowing nod, growing suspicious. As much as he’s flattered—and a tad bit pleased—that you always keep your eyes on him enough to notice the finer points to his clothes, red soles are incredibly specific knowledge only privy to those with a keen interest in fashion. Finding no harm in prying, he nudges you in the side. “…didn’t think you’re the type to like fashion.”

You sidle up to him, hands quick to return his jab with one of your own. “Not me, no. Byron’s a huge fashion nerd who keeps his Pinterest board full of fashion brands, that’s all.” Noctis huffs at your predictable action, swatting you aside. He’s way too used to your antics by now—not that he knows if it’s a good thing or not. Thwarted, you backpedalled, keeping your hands to yourself. “He’s always buzzing about new fashion trends or whatever’s hot in the market, and he has this huge stash of fashion magazines in his room, making scrapbooks out of the bits he liked. It’s also kinda creepy since he idolises Claire Farron enough to have her posters on his walls. After a while, you just pick up about stuffs like that when he’s around 24/7.”

That’s some unnecessary insight on the guy who continuously pisses him off at every waking moment of his life, but Noctis isn’t about to say that to your face, not when said guy is your childhood butler who took whippings in your stead. If Gladio likened him to an older, pissier version of Ignis, the truth might not be far off. Grunting, Noctis nudges the door open for you. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

Apparently, the store manager witnessed his interaction with you, greeting them with a bemused smile when the waft of cool air hit him. Her silver nametag reads Magisa. “Welcome, Your Highness,” she says with her pencil thin eyebrows still parked high on her forehead. “May I help you and your companion for today?”

Dealing with sales reps hounding his every step and tailing him worse than Glaives is enough to seize him up. A quick shake of his head has the wrinkled woman peering him over her rimmed glasses, and Noctis lets his eyes wander the store to avoid her piercing stare. “Nah, we’re good. I’m just going to look around.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” she placates, even if her half-bow is stunted with the fact that she’s still sneaking stares at your general direction. “If you and your lady friend require assistance, please do not hesitate to approach any of us.”

With how she places great emphasis on the word, Noctis has the sense to grimace. Should he be worried if this will blow up when the tabloids lap it all up? Yeah, hopefully not. It's his first time entering the store without his usual duo flanking his sides, and sensational scoops are one way to get the readership spiking faster than the Citadel's PR Department's migraine.

"Uh. Thanks. Can you just…?" he makes some vague hand gesture, hoping it’s a loose interpretation of what he needs, eyes skirting around when her stare is harder than stone. "We just want to shop without—uh, things happening."

She seems to understand him that much with no questions asked, quick on her feet to flip the sign to Closed and drops the automated blinds over the storefront with a click of a button. The sudden hush accompanying his personal shopping experience has you teetering closer to him, wary eyes searching his face for any signs of reassurance. Your fingers worry the hems of his jacket, chewing on your bottom lip out of habit again. Noctis squeezes your shoulder to ease your nerves before Magisa turns.

“As much as I love celebrity news, I don’t want to see some clickbait article like You Wouldn’t Believe What Prince Noctis Did Last Weekend on Insomnia Daily’s website,” she announces, a corner of her mouth tugging upwards on one side. She looks like she’s seen her fair share of celeb mishaps in her own store and would love nothing more than to die of natural causes than a heart attack. “By all means, Your Highness, do be careful. The media circus is barbaric enough to tear your reputation into shreds if you drop your guard.”

And not even the Glaives can guard him against it. "…yeah, copy that.”

Magisa is sensible enough to keep a respectful distance from him when he strolls through the rolling racks, suede jackets, knitted sweaters, complementing accessories, an orgasm of colours reaching out to him. It’s easy to forget why he’s here when he’s here with you, taking in the slanted photo frames hanging off the walls, glorious lights dawning on you and him, stops at an eye-catching bomber jacket studded in stars across its back—until he’s distracted by your fingers tugging his cuff.

“What are we looking for, Prince? Anything specific in mind for Ignis? Or is there anything he’s been eyeing?”

That’s a good question. Walking into another aisle offers rows of men’s accessories hanging from sleek metal plates. Noctis eyes a leather belt with some punk rock aesthetic on it; Prompto’d like that. “No idea actually. Was hoping we’d just find something here for him.”

“Maybe I can browse the other side and see what I can come up with?” you offer, slinking backwards with a genuine expression of being helpful to the cause. Noctis turns on his heels, catching the flit of your fingers trailing in the air as goodbye. Your back turns to him when you wander through gypsum partitions, leaving an echo of your voice. “I’ll come back soon.”

That is not how he envisioned this to be, but uh. “Sure, I guess…” Noctis answers to an empty space, minding how awkward it feels when you’re not by his side. He has half the urge to chase you just because—and the other half is judging him through Magisa's pointed silence, having witnessed every waking second.

Deciding it's best to concentrate on the task in hand, he orientates his focus to a suave combo of a dress shirt, striped belt, and gradient aviators arbitrarily arranged on a wall-mounted shelf. The clashing colours don't scream Ignis Posh Scientia, so it's a solid No for Noctis. A cashmere scarf in tartan isn't Ignis Stylish Scientia either, and Noctis backs away from the section altogether. After rifling through three snazzy co-ords, four fitted pants whilst knowing nothing of Ignis’ size, two loafers and simultaneously thwarted by Ignis’ mysterious size yet again, Noctis is almost ready to call it a day.

Magisa, thankfully, steps up to her task after sensing his deathly desperation and escorts him to a selection of accessories for the subdued, wrinkled hands lifting one of the many displays for him to choose. Having her recommendations ironed out some of the hitches in his grand plan, deciding the subtle emboss of a skull on a pair of suspenders is better than the garish VW belt buckle, and with satisfaction, Noctis follows her to the cashier—

—or not, when a sharp glint has him making a short detour to a tiered jewellery display.

Hanging off the dainty hooks are little bits of silver with varying pendants, necklaces and chokers sparkling under a well-placed spotlight. Before he takes a step back to think why he’s here and what he’s doing and Magisa’s incredible concern with whatever he’s up to, Noctis threads his fingers through a delicate star necklace.

Diamante dotting all five points up to its heart, sleek silver chain neither too long nor short like his soon-to-be five months with you. Just right, maybe just right sitting at the base of your neck nestled between your collarbones. That’s not too bad of a thought, so before he overthinks things and dabbles into the mechanics guiding his rash action, he hands it over to a waiting Magisa, who accepts it with pursed lips.

“Shall I pack it separately?” she asks none too subtly, returning to the cash register to ring up his purchases. “Would you prefer a nondescript bag or a ribbon to go with it?”

Noctis cocks a brow, withdrawing his wallet and putting his card on the proffered tray. “Is this about the suspenders or?” She gives him a look, the one that makes him feel like he's in trouble after Ignis looted his unhealthy Nissin collection, and he instantly knows what she's referring to. "Uh. Separately packaged. Just a box will do." Maybe a ribbon? "Nothing too flashy for the ribbon. Simple stuff."

“Of course, Highness, she doesn’t seem like the gaudy sort,” she offers her opinion—not that he asked her for it, but it’s a little reassuring that Magisa seems satisfied with his choice. Deft hands slotted his card, nude fingernails key in numbers on the screen, making quick work of boxing up the necklace for him to hide.

And hiding your necklace is just a simple affair of attuning it with his armoury, stowing it deep where nobody else knows its presence but him.

The fracture of blue scattering over the countertop disappears in seconds, and it has Magisa pinching her glasses to lower it by a fraction.

“Well,” she comments, impressed, “that’s handy.”

Noctis smirks.

THAT PAPERBAG IN YOUR ARMS shouldn’t be getting under his skin, but it is. You emerge almost guiltlessly from the storefront with your purchase, a sizeable heft for its nondescript beige, smiling his way. Just what exactly is in it, that's the million Credit question right there. It could be something for your own closet since you've never gone shopping on your own before, but the irrational and conspiratorial Noctis whispers it's something for Byron, definitely for Byron, because when are you notthinking about fashionable little Byron and his four-digit leather gloves anyway? Your morning conversation said all that needs to be said.

The sun’s irritating his skin and feeding the irritation in his heart, but you don’t seem to notice any of it.

“So what’re we doing now, Prince?” you say, prancing by his side in that one-two skip you do whenever you’re excited, but you’re playing off your excitement just so he won’t say anything about it. “Is there anything else you wanna do?”

Crossing the Ladian Avenue together, heavily blossoming magnolia trees shaded the pavement, creamy innocence perfuming the air. Strips of grass overlay granite slabs, pink petals dusting the surface. Children play imaginary hopscotch on evenings when their parents are off from work, couples marvel over the bold jewels growing on these magnolias, and for people like Noctis, someone not exactly a parent or your boyfriend, he pockets his hands and tries to shrug off his misplaced displeasure. Tries, because he’s still not good at it, but at least he’s willing to try.

“You hungry?”

Cracked sunlight falls over a part of your face, highlighting the sheer luminance of your eye. “Yeah? I mean, I’m totally cool if you wanna go home now since we’ve got what you need, but…” you stop underneath a magnolia, leaning against the scrawny trunks clustered together, “if it’s not too much of a hassle for you, can we go to the bookstore together?”

“The bookstore?” he repeats—totally not distracted by how the sunlight fragments colours in your iris, totally not wanting to press his fingers to your cheek to feel how warm you are. “Sure, if you have something to do there. Not that far of a detour from here.” Pointing to some few blocks in the distance to show how close it is, his hand falls to his hip just so he’d avoid touching you out of your comfort zone. “You wanna head there now?”

You give a little stretch with your arms high above your head, making a sound of pure content. One that Noctis has never heard before. “Nah, later. Lunch sounds way more tempting. Where do you wanna take me this time?”

He can’t say he’s thought that far ahead, but he’s proud of himself for being able to turn the question right at you. “What do you wanna eat this time?”

“The ramen we had was really tasty,” you suggest, though you quickly retract your statement with a finger tapping your chin, “but I kinda wanna eat something different. Something like that, but not something like that?”

There you go again, all roundabout answers with no end in sight. Five months in and you’re still you. Shreds of magnolias drift in the breeze as he snorts, dusting off pretty pinks falling on his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it means, Prince,” you say, quick hands cupping a fluttering petal, delighted like you’ve never seen one before. Maybe Byron’s never pruned magnolias for your vases, that’s possible enough. “Kinda like one of those feel-good foods? Homely kinds of stuff, nothing fancy, just delicious meals straight from the heart.”

The wind picks up, sweeping through the boulevard, a flurry of flowers raining on you and him. Nonchalantly picking out a petal streaked in rich pinks fading in whites from your hair, Noctis drops it into your outstretched hands. You crane your neck to reward his gift with a smile, and it’s all he needs. “Ever had oden before?”

“Nope, never had them.” You shake your head as Noctis plucks off more pinks from your hair, his jacket, your shoulders, presents in the palms of the queen in white. “What’s oden like? Loads of rich broth? Warm, fuzzy foodie meals? Instaglam-worthy shots?”

“Your inner Prom is coming out,” he points out, and you laugh.

Just like this, it’s nice standing around, talking with you all casual like nothing else matters in this world. Pressing your back to the tree, cornering you like this—oh. Magisa’s warning throbs in his head.

Yeah, shit, he kind of forgot about that, didn’t he?

Noctis consciously takes a step back, catching questions in your eyes.

The Glaives tailing him 24/7 would peck all this up like Chocobo feed for the rest of the Glaives back home to gobble over, and if he’s hoping this won’t be #1 trending gossip in Insomnia, he better start praying to whatever Astrals’ out there watching over him. They say Ramuh’s the kindest of the bunch, right? So maybe Ramuh would listen and spare him all the media sharks who could’ve spied on him.

Out in the open space, anyone could be watching him—you. He doesn't have the cover of the night to help him out when it's bright and breezy like this, nothing like the privacy of a lake and the stars, nothing like Prompto’s presence warranting a friendly outing. Going out with him and Ignis is one thing while going out with you is on another scale altogether. He doesn’t enjoy freedom the way a commoner does, all because he’s the prince. And princes don’t get to walk around with you the same way Byron does.

There it is again.

He hates it. Hates the familiar edges of that moody, problematic prince coming up. All because he doesn’t think things through and his temperament is getting the best of him and he just can’t say it because he doesn’t know how to make it sound not so awkward since he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore but he can’t go past a boyfriend because what kind of shitty boyfriend is he going to be when he can’t even date you normally. And then there’s Byron too, feeding the unhealthy glutton for jealousy in him. So he’ll probably end up ruining this day in the end, won’t he?

Pretending the disappointment clouding your eyes is nothing more than confusion, he quirks a finger for you to follow. “C’mon, let’s go. I’m starving.”

The abrupt change in his demeanour isn't lost on you. Still, you seem to stumble out of whatever daydream cluttering your head, petals once clasped tight in your palms now scattering all over the ground. “…right, lead the way.”

He’s good at pretending, isn’t he? He’s been pretending he’s got his life together all these years, so he’s sure he can pretend to be your friend just a little while longer.

A MOUTHFUL OF PIPING HOT oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. You’ve never seen someone conducting business from a wooden cart curtained in red, but the novelty of the experience has you eager to sink onto the wooden stool for the pick-and-mix session to begin. The ancient owner, yet another friend of the prince, is all toothy grins when Noctis ducks into his stall, batting away all attempts at paying at the end of the meal.

“You’re definitely the People Prince,” you say, en route to the bookstore across a boulevard lined in street lamps. Paper bag bouncing by your side, you take a peek at his face. “I’m kinda surprised how many people actually know you—not like know know, but they know you like you’re friends from way before.”

Noctis shrugs like it means nothing to him, but you’ve long learnt his belligerent blue eyes are more honest than he is. “Used to hang out loads with Prom when I was in high school. Arcades, ramen stalls, oden carts, cinemas, karaoke, you name it, we did ‘em all.” He swoops sharp right into another street, plodding uphill past grey-bricked boutiques. “When you’re a regular, you’re instantly a level above most customers they get on other days.”

You tail him from behind, though momentarily, a woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu makes you coo for a second. Noctis flashes you a look for your unintelligible cooing, not expecting that form of a reply, and you fiddle for an answer. “Um—well, you’re the prince and you get along so well with them, so you’re everyone’s favourite.”

“Totally not,” he rebukes with less bite and more of a scowl. Curt, leaving the conversation in the dust, just like that.

Had you hit a sore spot somehow? He’s been testier ever since you got out of Vivienne Westwood a little later than he did. Is it because it's the usual cliché of guys hating girls when they go off on a shopping spree? And then they have to wait for what seems like aeons before their significant other comes back to reality? Free oden failed in cheering him up, even if the ecstatic old man loaded up his portion with more freebies, so hangry from both hunger and anger is out of the question since you’re full and he’s full and he’s still taking you to the bookstore like what you wanted.

So what was your fault?

You don't know.

Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

Catching up brings you to an uncommon bookstore, broad posters taping the front of the store in the latest literature fixes. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, you assume it's a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. The whole atmosphere matches a parked car next to its entrance, white racing stripes across chintzy pink convertible, silver Vixen on its antique hood. It even has a Moogle bauble on its antenna, making you smile at how cute it is.

Unfortunately, Noctis doesn’t share your sentiment and doesn’t share your thoughts. He just stares at you staring at the car, and you felt bad for pulling him all the way here. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here after all? And he’s just too polite to say anything about it?

Somehow, that sends your premature joy plummeting to the ground.

“C’mon, let’s go in.”

“—right.”

The brisk exchange falls flat with you following Noctis inside, chilly air-conditioning fleecing your sun-warmed skin. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on weathered racks, but it’s hard to concentrate on the people and the place when Noctis and only Noctis is in your head. You pissed him off, didn’t you? In some way you can’t explain since you don’t know how you screwed up. You knew this day would come. Just like how you fight with Byron over the smallest of things, this could cement the start of a dispute between you and Noctis over who knows what and Gods know why.

He’s walking ahead.

He isn’t waiting for you.

Wandering through stationeries shelved along the walls, fingers drifting over jutting pencils, you are lost. Shellac finishes to a wooden barrel fail to reignite your interest in purchasing and engraving a fountain pen for Ignis’ birthday. The bookstore is suddenly too cold, too lonely for you alone, standing in front of a glass display. You are a face among the many masks hustling about, giggling and chatting and walking along. You can’t share Noctis’ world when he’s not here with you.

A soft graze on your elbow has you looking up to your left, sinking into a trance when familiar blackness return.

Oh. Noctis is here all along, blue eyes unreadable. He’s doing something with his hand. Oh. He’s holding you. He turns his back, fingers laced through yours, leading you away from the crowd. Past uncaring apron-wearing helpers, past scampering children, past the broadest wall leading to an emergency exit. Heavy fire doors are bolted shut behind him. They erase all sounds, hiding you and him from scandalized eyes.

His hand is warm in yours.

Fluorescent bulb flickers overhead, the stairwell smells of dust and cement. You can’t hear your heart beating when Noctis tips his head, messy bangs turning blue eyes black. He has your back to the wall like he had you at the tree—only, there is no distance separating you and him. He presses into your space with the intent to take everything, leaving nothing behind. You let him. His leg nudges between your knees up your thigh and he bends close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheeks. You can't breathe.

Dry lips descend on your ear with a warm whisper.

“Ah. A white puppy.”

You feel him smile.

“It’s too bad, really, that I need a black mongrel instead.”

It shuts down in black. Your eyes are wide open but you can’t see. Noctis is gone but you still feel his knee brushing against your inner thighs. Crawling the column of your neck is his hand, and it settles with a thumb on your jugular. He breathes low and harsh and you can’t mistake the shudder up your spine as anything else other than fear. You can’t see him, but you feel him holding you down the cracking drywall. You can’t move. You can’t scream.

He is saying something, but you hear him no more, not over the Crystal humming in your ear. It drowns him out like summer bees and static TV, but his breath laving your lobe is warm, rank, smelling of death and decay. Clawed fingernails dig half-moons in your wrist. You flinch under his strength. He doesn’t budge. You are cold when it is hot and sweat starts from your scalp sliding to your shoulder. Knees are buckling underneath you and you are certain you are falling but there is no telltale pain bruising your knees. You don’t know if you are standing or you are kneeling or you are here.

Blackness thickens because it’s never gone from the start, and the Crystal grows louder like it fights to be heard over Noctis. Electricity slithers where the crescents lie on your wrist, tattooing your skin in short jolts. Ouch you gasp but your lips do not move and your voice is unheard.

You’ve felt this before.

It’s magic.

But there is no blue in the blacks, only frayed red seeping through. Blotting out the dark, blurring into greys.

The buzz snips off sharp as scissors.

A mouthful of piping hot oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. A woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu has you distractedly cooing for a second. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, it’s a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on purposely weathered racks, and the shellac finishes to a wooden barrel catches your fancy for Ignis’ gift.

The cashier hands your change with a smile and you exit the store to find Noctis waiting outside. Why is he looking all glum and sullen with his arms crossed over his chest anyway? Didn't that oden old man load up his bowl with all the grilled fishcake and sticky tofu skins? That can’t do, he can’t do all the frowning when you’re all happy from the food.

“Sorry for the wait!” You cosy up to him, tucking your packaged pen by your side. Noctis visibly jumps and looks at you as if you’ve grown a second head. His face is priceless and you can't help but laugh at him. "Gosh, Prince, what's wrong? Did something happen?”

“Uh—no, nothing happened,” he’s quick to sputter with a shake of his head, though he can’t seem to wipe that silly look he gives you. “You… okay?”

You’re confused, but not as confused as Noctis. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And Noctis takes a hard, long look. Narrowed blue eyes, lips curled, arms uncrossing to drop by his sides. He surveys you how one surveys an advertisement, even if all you had for an offering is this white dress and two sets of gifts. After a while, seemingly coming to a decision, he guiltily rubs his nape. "No. Nothing. Forget it."

“What, all that and nothing?” you chide at the anticlimactic end, taking one step after another.

He doesn’t answer, walking past an empty parking lot, and you jab him in his side, inciting an undignified yelp at your pre-emptive attack. So maybe it’s not worth it when he turns around and you get a sense of belated uh-oh when he chases you up the street, but at least now you know Gladio’s training is paying off because hey, your sides aren’t hurting that much anymore.

YOU ARE WEIRD AND UNREPENTANT and everything in Noctis’ dictionary of a catastrophe. Here he is, trying his damned best in keeping a distance from you, and you all but kicked over the barricades and shredded the WARNING flyers he tacked on the signboards. What’s he supposed to do when you ran fast uphill—but he’s faster,duh, and it ends in him yanking you through backstreet detours to avoid a ruckus. You had the nerve to laugh at him with the biggest, most brilliant smile he’s ever seen—not that it’s forgiven anything you’ve done to him today, absolutely none at all.

He can’t believe he’s saying this, but he’s glad to see your chilly chamber of secrets, even if it means his toes have to freeze on marble again.

Incredibly in a good mood, you are humming. Clicking on your desktop, belting out Billboard’s Top 20 instead of dead people’s music, boiling hot water and making tea. Noctis drops on a chair and observes you with a palm propping his head. Observes, because he’s sure as hell never experienced something like this before, never seen the city life infecting you all the way to your room, never heard you singing softly under your breath to some crappy lyrics scrawled on restroom stalls.

Did the bookstore unlock some hidden part of your personality like some side quest in a prophecy? Visit the bookstore to gain a new skill: Humming! or something? Noctis makes a face at that. Five years with Prompto and his RPG obsession definitely rubbed off on him.

You balance two cups in a hand and a teapot in the other, clicking off the music. “Here you go, Prince.” When he makes a move to help, you all but shushed him to sit, bringing porcelain to his face and pouring a stream of gold liquid right in it. “Sorry I don’t have anything good, Byron’s been too distracted with Ignis’ birthday party until he forgot my groceries this week.”

Noctis takes a sip of the bland concoction and considers what you said—not that he’s surprised irritation’s rapidly overtaking his initial revelation at your good mood because it’s Byron and when are you not in a good mood about Byron anyway? “Hmm.”

Either you heard him or you don’t as you sit right beside him instead of your usual spot behind your desk, nursing your own cupful. “He’s been baking nonstop,” you say with a sparkle in your eyes, but it vanished when you continue, “and when he screws up, I’m his garbage can apparently. He’s okay with cooking but he’s still crap at baking so I kinda think he’s trying to impress Ignis with this cake but ah—but don’t tell him I told you, he’ll totally kill me.”

His tone darkens with another deep sip. “Hmm.”

Radiating the sun’s enthusiasm, you aren’t unenthused with the one-sided conversation. He sets down his polished cup a little too sharply and you take it as a chance for refilling, not that he’s in any mood to drink more.

“So anyway, thanks for taking me out today,” you cheer, attempting to duck your head just so you’d meet his downturned eyes since he’s gone ahead with slouching in his seat. “Things are really different in the morning, huh? The kids, the streets, the shops, I didn’t think it’d be that different from all the times we went out at night. I was so, so wrong.”

He says nothing and stares right back at you.

He’s an ass for sulking about Byron now, isn’t he?

He is.

Not discouraged by his off-putting silence, you reach by your chair to pull the VW paper bag in your lap, hands flattening crinkles at the folds. Great, seeing that stuff shoves his mood off a cliff faster than a dive. You’re not going to make him sit through you parading your purchase for Byron, are you? He’d rather leave before that happens. No way in hell he’ll stick around to drag that knife down his heart like a goddamn masochist who likes this shit.

The moment he tries to get to his feet, tries, your hands shoot out to dump the bag on him. Whump it goes on his jeans, and Noctis stays because his legs suddenly forgot how to walk.

“That’s yours, Prince, as thanks for today—and also kind of like thanks for sticking with me all the time—wait, no, that’s not what I meant—as in thanks for letting me stick with you.” Your voice is thin at your fumbling, eyes nervously sweeping from him to the bag, bouncing your knees, and he swallows. “I mean it. So. Yeah. Um, thanks for all these four months together and I’ll work really, really hard to make sure the fifth month counts. Yeah. Yeah.”

So maybe his brain can’t quite catch up because his mouth betrays him with a stupid, “Uh.” And that’s not what he’s trying to say when you look positively petrified at the dead sound like he doesn’t care when he obviously cares, damn it. “Wait no—I just.” He swallows the tightness in his throat because why is it so hard to say something when just a word makes the difference between life and death because you, too, counted all the months together like him? His mouth still can’t process the important message and he ends up with another dumb, “Um. Thanks.”

What else? What else? Should he add that he’s sorry for being an ass today just because a certain green-eyed monster kept taunting him with Byron’s name? That blew out of proportions—and that embarrassed him to the point of no return. Here you are, gifting him the same paper bag that haunted him all the way from Vivienne Westwood, and it’s not for your butler of decades. It’s for him. A five-monthiversary gift. For him.

And nobody else but him.

Because you only had eyes for him from the start.

The silence is deafening. He considers you considering him, you’re all wide-eyed silence, he’s all eyes lidded low silent. Your hands smoothen white cotton over your thighs. Teeth are back on your bottom lip, gnawing, pulling. He’s going to mess this up again, isn’t he? Yeah, he is. He totally is. How’s he supposed to say something, anything, when his thoughts are a jumbled mess of surplus jealousy and growing shame?

The next best thing for him to do is the good old adage of action speaks louder than words. Taking the advice to heart, Noctis snatches the ribboned box from his armoury in a burst of blue, tossing it to your lap. Not the best way to gift you, but it evens out the score since you threw his first.

You haven’t moved an inch as the box bounces on your thighs. You probably stopped breathing too.

Noctis clears his throat and remembers that conversation is a two-way thing, as bad as he is at it. “That’s… yours.”

On cue, trembling fingers scramble to lift it to uncertain eyes and he’s rewarded with the sight of a dumbstruck strategist trying to make sense of the package. Turning it in every angle in sunlight diffused by recessed lighting, examining the gold emboss on cool grey, and he’s willing to bet if he’s not there, you would’ve even sniffed the whole box like it’s an edible prank. In the end, you make a hapless sound, balancing it on your jittery lap with a rigid smile.

“Um.” You say, just as dumb as he did. “That was unexpected.”

Noctis tilts his head the other way round. “What, no thanks?”

Instantly, you seize up in panic. He meant it in a funny sense, just a friendly tease, but apparently, it's lost in the mathematics in your head. “No, no, I really, really, really appreciate it. Thank you so much, Prince, I—” you stop to make a strangled sound, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle the noise. “—thanks, seriously, thanks. ”

Noctis catches your eyes turning glassy and hell, you’re not going to cry, are you? It’s already bad enough he’s struggling to deal with his internal issues; he can’t deal with a crying strategist right now. “Wait—stop. Don’t cry. Dude, seriously, chill.”

It takes a whole seven seconds for you to sniff like you’re draining your eyes inwardly, dabbing the wet corners with the back of your hand. “Not crying, but close enough.”

“Yeah, right.” Six, he hates it when someone messes up his hair, but his own hand is messing up his hair and he can’t get mad at himself, can he? Whatever. Noctis gives up understanding this whole thing and winds up gesturing haplessly at your gift. “You can open it if you want.”

“Sure—" you sniff and Noctis’ wary eyes are searching for any signs of tears as you wave at his gift hopelessly. “—you too, open that if you want to.”

So.

Now that it’s gotten to this point, he can’t imagine what’s in the paper bag or summon the last memory of receiving a gift outside of birthdays. All he knows is that he extracts a folded jacket from its depths, feels his brows meeting at the middle, almost did a double take when he gets a good look at the pin-sized stars dotting the back, physically refrained himself from doing said double take because it’s the same jacket he eyed the moment he stepped in the shop, and floundered for something to say. If you noticed his red soles, he can’t say he’s surprised you noticed how he lingered a second too long at the rack. Noctis leans deeper in his seat and stops trying to pin the precise point in the timeline to answer when you snuck behind his back to buy this for him. He finds none.

An awed gasp from your end tells him your reaction.

Now it’s his turn to dart back and forth from your face to the necklace dripping between your fingers. Your flushed face. One with a garbled series of stuttered ah, um, uh and more ah, um, uh until you abruptly swallowed all nonsensical noises and looked at it with the softest expression he’s ever seen on your face. Wet eyelashes quivering. Lips trembling. Soundless.

The silence returns.

Then, a quiet, “Star.”

Noctis searches for his voice for a while. He finds it, but he can’t release it from wavering. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you say.

He gets that much. Star. Just like the ones on his jacket. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you repeat, and a weaker, “Noctis.”

Noctis buries his hands in his jacket. He doesn’t realise when he’d done it. His fingers are burrowing deeper into fine fabric and hummingbirds are caged in his ribs. His name. On your lips. His name. Everything else matters little now. “Yeah?”

Slowly, almost unearthly, you return from your starry reverie with the lethargy of a woman drowning in the sea. Languid, lifting the necklace to your eyes—only, you are not looking at it, you are looking past the pendant, you are looking at him. “Just like the stars we saw that night, remember?”

Oh. Oh. The hummingbirds are loud. And fast. Noctis fishes something from his vocabulary along the lines of hey just so you know, it’s totally fine if you wanna call me by my name but some words end up omitted after an unexpected filtering and all he’s left with is a lame, “That’s my name.”

Your eyes are gentle when you say, “I know.”

The hummingbirds struggle maddeningly loud against his ribcage and Noctis thinks of come here, Noct, and come here and let me love you, and he knows what exactly he wants. “You know.” His voice has gone rougher in the edges. “You can call me by my name.”

The necklace ripples in the air. There is no breeze. Only your hand trembles. You don’t cry. You don’t smile. You don’t look away. “I can’t call you that, I’m sorry…” Your tongue twists each word with care, yet the undertones betray your want—your inherent need for his name. “I respect you as the prince, and it’s a reminder to me that you are my prince. It’s something I shouldn’t ever forget, as someone who wants to serve you.”

The reasoning behind your logic is solid but Noctis doesn’t want logic now.

Logic has no place between two people of a chance meeting on the 56th floor.

“I don’t want to be the prince to you. I want to be.” He pauses, looks mildly uncomfortable, and shakes his head. He wants it. Even if it’s pretending game for two. “Wanna be someone normal to you.” We aren’t normal, he says, we can never be normal with how things are, but I’ll keep pretending it’s normal if you’ll let me. “Not your prince, not your future duty. Just… normal.”

Someone normal enough to take walks with you on flowering promenades.

Someone normal enough to spend hours with you playing video games.

Someone normal enough to sleep together with you.

“So,” you murmur quietly, "is it okay," tipping your head aside, "if I," looping silver around your neck, "call you," clasp fixed securely in place, the star at home between your collarbones, "Noctis?"

He doesn’t trust his voice. Back to action it is, with a slow nod of his own.

You are the very image of his imagination, star sitting at the base of your neck, the centrepiece of your shoulders. You are too real. More than what his paltry dreams offered in his sheets, you are in your chair in a room too cold with his necklace on your neck and he stops hearing the hummingbirds and starts feeling them under his skin. They’ve escaped, fluttering in his nerves, almost guiding his fingers with enough force to touch the silver on your skin.

“Noctis,” you say, fingering his chain.

He nods again.

“Noctis,” you say, a finger stopping on the star.

He softly agrees with your echo, “Yeah.”

“Noctis,” you say, eyes falling shut, head downcast. “Thank you.”

He knows his name belongs on your lips when he, too, closes his eyes. There are stars on the backs of his eyelids and he thinks he’ll dream of them tonight.

IT IS ONLY MUCH LATER ON when you are in the company of your mirror that you allow yourself a moment to examine your reflection. You are twenty and your hands are still bloodied with people whose names you don’t know. You are father’s bundle of sins and your mother is dead. Your eyes are bruised black and your sickly pallor hasn’t improved five months removed from the House of Andronicus. You suspect the illness lies not within the house, but within you yourself. You are a decaying garden and it shows in your eyes, on your lips, on your tongue.

But one thing has changed.

Mother’s hands are gone from your neck.

And in its stead is the prince’s—no, he’s no longer the prince to you.

Noctis.

That is his name.

In its stead is Noctis’ necklace, a weight different from mother’s. It’s cold like her hands, but it’s not hers. It’s Noctis’. The edge of the star goes under your fingernail and you know it is a closure you’ve long sought. Her burial is long overdue.

“Goodbye, mama. Rest in peace.”

[tbc.]

NOTES:

in case anyone hasn’t seen it yet, Erion Makuo drew EXTREMELY FANTASTIC AND IMMENSELY BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK of Omen Noctis here so please go and check it out and send the artist HUGE LOVES! thank you so much for the gorgeous artwork!!! ;u; Bless Erion, bless the artwork, bless everything about them!!!

yells bc it took me ten thousand years to edit this chapter oh my god im so glad it’s done. cheers to plot devices trying to move the fic along! to those of you who are still reading, thank you so much for waiting roughly 4 months for this update! i’m really touched by all of the positive and encouraging moral support i’ve received through comments, kudos, and tumblr messages, especially through the tough times i’m facing and despite my inactivity on tumblr too. i’m still working in the same place, still floating along, still suffering, but coming back to work on this project and others, fuelled by everyone’s support, really gave a huge boost to my emotional health. thank you so much, everyone, you guys are the best, the biggest life-changers, the awesomest people i could ever ask for in times like this.

so what’s next in decaying? everything is going to hell, that’s for sure. more fluff, equally balanced with more questionable content. if you’re uncomfortable with darker themes and morally dubious actions done by the characters, as usual, i’ll include appropriate warnings at the beginning of each chapter and even a little tldr at the bottom as a summary should you want to skip it.

i’ll try to have the next update as soon as i can since my progress is slightly hampered by my bilateral hand conditions, so please look forward to the next chapter as soon as i can! do take care, my lovely friends and readers; stay healthy and hydrated, keep hustling, the times are tough and things are getting tougher, but remember you can do it!

PREVIEW: you’re drowning in air but the world isn’t swimming past you anymore, reality isn’t flitting and warping around in dimensions before your eyes, and you finally feel you’re conscious enough to understand that night has fallen yet again over insomnia, over your room. but why’s byron waiting in the dark without any light and why’s he bending over to caress your cheek and he’s whispering go back to sleep too loudly and all you can tell him is wait byron i’m scared please stay voicelessly when your limbs don’t move and you can’t move and it’s dark, it’s too dark, but why can you see gold eyes and the line of his smile shifting into a smirk and—

[homesteak]

pepsicola

sfw johndave fic my friend gave me for christmas!

mid 1900s catholic school au

word count: 3306

John’s room was on the top floor, and he had no family with him to help carry his luggage.  His single suitcase was heavy, and the buckles were threatening to pop open.  He dragged up the narrow, stuffy stairwell until he came to the last door.

He heaved it open and trudged down the hallway, his suitcase banging against the backs of his legs.  His room was at the very end of the hallway on the right.  The door was ajar, and some kind of rock music was playing from the room.  John couldn’t put his finger on it.  It was honest and sexy, something he knew someone’s parents would disapprove of.

The left side of the room had already been claimed.  A suitcase was open in the floor, half of its contents strewn about the room.  A David Bowie poster had been tacked crookedly to the wall.  A raggedy pair of red Chucks that were definitely not up to the uniform standard sat at the foot of the bed.

A wispy pillar of smoke puffed from the bed.  John’s alleged roommate was draped across it.  His socked feet were crossed at the ankles.  A cigarette dangled from his fingers.  Most of it had burned away instead of being inhaled.

John scrambled into the room.  He dropped his suitcase, yanked the door shut behind him, and hurried over to throw the window open.  “Isn’t that against the rules?”

His roommate leisurely rose to a sitting position and flicked the ashes from his cigarette.  “I can’t believe you blew your first impression in such a short amount of time.”

John blinked at his candor.  Part of him was relieved--they could both skip the awkward politeness now and get it all out in the open.  But upon getting a full view of his roommate, John knew it was going to be much more complicated than that.

His untucked shirt and slacks tailored his slim, fit frame just about perfectly.  His hair was smooth and blond, with a few rebellious strands falling against his forehead.  His lips were round and pink enough to make John jealous of the cigarette.  A pair of sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

He leaned over and turned the volume down on his record.  John couldn’t see his eyes, but he got the crawling feeling his roommate was looking him up and down.  He was already prickling, but now heat was blooming across his face.

“I’m Dave.”  He put out his cigarette on his bed frame.

“I’m--I’m John,” John stammered.  He quickly turned away and tried to busy himself with his luggage.  He lugged it over and heaved it onto his naked mattress.

“Are you sure?” Dave asked.  “I think you might be lying.”

“No.”  John tried to focus on finding a drawer for his socks instead of the way Dave’s voice sounded or how his face was burning up.  “I’m pretty sure my name is John.”

He heard Dave flop back down onto his bed.  “You sure you aren’t, maybe, Steve or someone?  You kinda look like a Steve.”

John peeked over his shoulder.  “I do?”  From this angle, he could see that Dave’s eyes were closed.  He tried not to linger on them.

“Yeah.”  He hummed to his music for a bit.

John turned back to his belongings just as Dave started to turn over onto his side.

“Say, what grade are you in?  I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

John examined his wardrobe on the opposite side of his room. “I’m a, uh, senior.  This is my first year here.”  He started hanging his clothes, painfully aware that Dave was eyeing him.

“What’s your problem, man?”

He figured he better not look at Dave.  “Nothing’s my problem.”

He listened to Dave take the record off and flip through his collection for another.  “You worried about having a delinquent roommate?  Think I might run you off?”  He could hear the smirk in his voice.  It was an edge, a slight chuckle.  If it had fingers it would have been tickling up John’s spine.

John wracked his brain for a way to get the upper hand in this conversation.  He made the strategic decision not to pay Dave a glance as he spoke, but it was mostly just to hide the red in his cheeks.  “You’ve got a reputation here, don’t you?”

He shifted around on his bed.  “Guilty.”

John straightened his posture and folded a shirt neatly against his chest.  From the corner of his eye, he peered at the various garments lying around Dave’s side of the floor.  “I don’t care, man.  Just as long as whatever you’re doing doesn’t get me in trouble.”

“Okay, I think I can respect that.”

John unpacked his bed sheets and turned back around to dress his mattress.  Dave was lying with his feet propped up against the wall and his head hanging off the edge of his bed.  His half cigarette was between his lips, but it wasn’t lit.  He wasn’t saying anything, but John knew his eyes were following him.  

John decided he was going to allow himself one evening of homosexual thoughts, and then he was never going to look at Dave in that way again.

“Dinner starts in a few minutes,” Dave announced.  He rolled out of his bed and took his record off.  He grabbed his tie from his chair and tucked it lazily under his collar, letting the ends just hang loose.  He ran his fingers through his hair a few times and then turned to John, who quickly attempted to pretend he hadn’t been watching his every move.  “Why don’t you come with me, Steve?”

---

Dave didn’t say much outside of pointing out certain buildings and good places to smoke on the way to the cafeteria.  John kept looking at him and trying to piece together what kind of reputation exactly he could have.  Everything in John’s good nature told him to keep away from this boy, but his defiant aloofness made him want to chisel as deep as he could go.

He followed Dave through the line and sat across from him at a far table next to a window.  The evening sunlight made the outline of his hair glow white.  He watched John cut apart his chicken delicately and methodically.  Dave picked at his green beans one by one.

“So why are you here for just your senior year?”

John could tell he wasn’t the type for small talk, so he must have been genuinely interested.  “I got a scholarship.  I thought this school would look good on college applications.”

Dave stopped chewing and swallowed.  “A scholarship?”

“What?”  John couldn’t tell if he was impressed or alarmed.

He went back to stabbing at his food.  “You know what kinds of kids are here, right?  Not ones who get scholarships.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oho, man.”  Dave laughed and shook his head.  “You’re too cute, John.”

John stuttered for a moment, that annoyingly familiar heat rising back to his cheeks.  “What?”

Dave chewed his food, which was clearly more important to him than this conversation.  “This isn’t where good, hard-working boys from middle-class families who wear clean specs and ironed shirts and get scholarships go.”  He pointed at John with his fork.  “This is the kind of school where filthy rich parents dump their snot-nosed sons for nine months out of the year because they have better things to do than raise them.”

John’s chest felt tight.  He was fully aware of all he was saying.  He just figured if he kept his head down, they wouldn’t be able to sniff him out.  But Dave had barely known him for an hour.  “Oh.”

“Hey, don’t you worry.”  He picked a few green beans from John’s plate.  “You’re lucky you got me as a roommate.”

“I thought you had a reputation?”

“That’s right.”  Dave bit the beans from his fork, never breaking eye contact with him.  He smirked and licked his lips.  “‘Cause I’m at the top of the food chain.”

---

For the next few days, Dave did as he said he would and took John under his wing.  He was right.  Out of all the filthy rich kids, he was the filthiest.  The underclassman dove out of his way when he walked around the campus.  If he held out a cigarette, someone would light it for him.

John couldn’t figure out why Dave let him hang around.  He couldn’t figure out why he actually asked him about himself and listened when he talked about the movies he liked.  He couldn't figure out how he still knew so little about him.

Monday morning, John arrived early to his first-period pre-calculus class.  He tried to look busy with his books as more students trickled into the classroom.  It was a plain, uncomfortable kind of room.  The desk rows were too tight together, and the walls were bare of any diagrams or posters.  The blinds were drawn, and the room was bathed in harsh electric light.

Once the teacher entered, the atmosphere seemed to get sucked out of the room.  She was tall and rail-thin, with a rigid posture and an expression that seemed even more strict and unmoving.  She unloaded a thick math book and started writing her name on the chalkboard in her tight, jagged handwriting:  Ms. Richter.

About a second before the tardy bell rang, none other than Dave glided into the classroom.  If he noticed the razor-sharp glare Ms. Richter shot him, he wasn’t fazed by it.  He spotted John and squeezed into the open seat beside him.  He had no books, no paper, just a stubby pencil and his sunglasses.

Richter quieted the class with just a pointed look.  She cleared her throat and gave her speech about how she had no tolerance for tomfoolery, and a vague--but still effective, John thought--about what would happen if anyone were to disrespect her policy.  She had her eyes fixed on Dave the entire time, but his expression remained neutral and undaunted.

“Mr. Strider,” she said, stinging enough that John saw Dave’s fingers tighten around the edge of his desk.  All the boys looked in his direction.

“If you think I’m like any of your previous instructors and will allow any of your notorious nonsense, you are sorely mistaken.”

She marched down the row so swiftly she fluttered the papers on students’ desks.  In a flash, she swiped her talons and snatched the sunglasses off of his face.

John felt his throat squeeze.  In a swirl of fabric, she marched back up to her desk and stuffed the glasses in her bag.

“Sunglasses are a violation of the dress code, Mr. Strider.”

John dared a look at Dave.  He sat completely still, his hands clamped around the edges of his desk.  His eyes were shut, and breaths came hard and slow in and out of his nose.

The class was achingly silent for the rest of the period.  As soon as the bell rang, Dave disappeared.  He was no longer at the top of the food chain.

---

John didn’t see Dave for the rest of the day.  He thought about going back to their room between classes to check on him, but he figured it probably wasn’t his place.  He didn’t want to be seen and wanted to stay that way.

After classes, he reluctantly decided to head back to their room.  When he got to his floor, he could hear music blaring from down the hallway.  The door was cracked, and he carefully pushed it open.  The air was smoky.  Dave had lit four cigarettes and just let them burn.  

John closed the door behind him and went to open the window.  Dave was hanging upside down from his bed, his eyes still shut.  He wanted to say something, but he decided he’d wait and let Dave speak first.

John slipped out of his shoes and settled on his bed with the book he’d been assigned for his literature class.  Dave reached over blindly and turned the music down.

John was several pages in when he finally spoke.

“I’m going to get my shades back.”

John froze, his thumb resting on the corner of his page.  He placed his glasses back on his nose.  Dave hadn’t moved from his position.  He still wasn’t showing the other boy his eyes, but his flat expression had shifted slightly.  His thumb drummed eagerly against his chest.

“What?”

He chewed on his lip.  “Tonight at six.  We’re going to break into her office.”

“We?”

“Yeah?”

John swallowed as he tried to process what was happening.  “Can I ask why?”

“A heist is better with company.”  Dave climbed off his bed and went to choose another record.  He kept his eyes away from John.  “Don’t question it, Egbert, just be flattered I asked.”

“No, I meant--”  He knew he was stepping into risky territory.  “Why do you have to steal them back?”

He could almost see the wall coming up in front of Dave.  It was a real one, too, not just a pretty translucent one he kept up for mystery.  “I’m not sure what kind of answer you’re looking for.”

As much as he wanted to press, John decided that for some reason he didn’t want to ruin whatever little thing they had going here even more.  “I’m not looking for one at all.  I was just making sure you knew why.”

Dave snickered.  “Okay.  Are you gonna come with me or not?”

John frowned.  He flicked at the corner of his book and bit the inside of his cheek.  “I can’t tonight, Dave.  The practice room is only open at six, and I’ve got to go.”

He shrugged.  “Heist at seven, then.”

---

John hadn’t been expecting Dave to accompany him to practice, so naturally, he was completely unprepared.  He kept himself always just out of his plain field of vision somehow, and stayed in his peripherals.

He followed John into the music room and flipped on the lights behind them.  John felt his eyes on him as he pushed the bench up to the piano and tested a few chords.  He sat down and waited for Dave to say something, but he stayed quiet.

John ran through a few pieces, maybe concentrating too hard on not missing notes instead of actually playing them.  Why did he feel he needed to impress Dave?  Maybe because he’d chosen him to join him on his heist.  Maybe it was because he’d taken the time to watch him practice.  Maybe it was because he wanted to be the reason for moving that indifferent expression of his.  Maybe because he wanted to see him smile outside of his daydreams.

He attempted a more ambitious piece he’d been working on.  He stumbled through the chords and disentangled his way through the notes.  He stopped about halfway through before he made a complete fool of himself.

“Why’d you stop?” Dave asked, causing John to jump.

“It--It needs a lot of work.”  Warmth seeped back into his cheeks.

“So keep working.”

Dave had pushed three chairs together and was lying across them like a cat in a windowsill.  John smiled.

“Why’d you come with me?”

“Why’d you let me?”

John couldn’t tell him why.  He couldn’t even tell himself why.  He couldn’t tell him he thought about crawling into his bed with him at night.  He couldn’t tell him he looked at the freckles on his back when he came back from the showers.  He couldn’t tell him he was hooked on the impossible mystery Dave Strider was.

“I think you’re swell, I guess.”

Dave laughed.  “Don’t tell me you write poetry, too.”

He got up and squeezed himself next to John on the bench.  John reflexively pinned his elbows to his sides.  Dave’s thigh pressed against his.  “Teach me a song.”

If John wasn’t already on fire, he was now.  Sweat beaded at the back of his neck.  He tried not to shake as he lifted his hands back to the piano.  “Do you know where C is?”

“Do I look like I know where C is?”

John reached over and hit C down low and instructed him to copy him at the middle.  He slowly demonstrated the melody for “Heart and Soul”.  Dave clumsily mimicked him.

As he kept repeating the notes to get a feel for the melody, he said, “Thanks for not prying about my shades.”

John tentatively began on the chords.  “Why are you thanking me?”

“You seem like the kind of guy who always likes to ask if you’re okay.”  He hit the wrong key and frowned.  “Like the kind of guy who cares.  I’m glad you figured out not to do that shit to me.”

No matter how badly John wanted his hand to accidentally bump into Dave’s, he avoided it.  “You don’t want me to care?”

He finally looked at him, full in the face.  His eyebrows were scrunched, and his eyelids sat low.  His eyelashes were light and curly, nearly close enough to dust against the other boy’s nose.  John couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, and he kind of liked it.

“I think I do want you to care.  I just don’t want you to talk about it.”

Dave turned back to the piano and started practicing the melody again.  John matched the chords with his choppy rhythm the best he could.

“Dave, I don’t think we should steal your sunglasses back.”

He didn’t stop playing.  He must have expected John to say that.  “Why not?”

“I--I think that’s what Richter is expecting.  I think she’s trying to get something out of you so you can be punished.”

Dave was quiet for a long moment.  John took it he realized what he was saying was right.  “Hey, John?”

John’s heartbeat lurched as the side of Dave’s hand bumped ungracefully into his.  “Yeah?”

“How about I take you out to see a movie tonight?”

---

Dave took their excursion as an opportunity to teach John where he could go to sneak in after curfew.  He jimmied open the fire exit and pushed John inside.  They clambered up the stairs and slipped into their room.  Dave was smiling.

He put on a record and flopped down on his bed.  He said nothing, only bobbed his head a little and grinned at John.

He turned to his dresser so he could maybe stifle that stubborn heat.  He changed out of his uniform and into his pajamas.  “You know, I almost forgot, Dave.”

“Forgot what?”

John picked up his pants and turned out one of the pockets.  “I grabbed these at the gas station while you were filling your car up.”  He fastened the top button on his pajama shirt and presented Dave with a pair of aviator sunglasses.

Dave got up and approached John.  He took the shades from his open palm and examined them, his expression still as usual.

“I--I know it’s silly, but--”

“John.”  He put on the sunglasses.  The price tag was still hanging off of them.  He barely had any time to admire how they looked on him.  “Just this once, stop being cute.”

“What?”

Dave grabbed the front of his pajamas and kissed John on the mouth.  He felt him lift onto the balls of his feet to reach him.  He couldn’t move.  He could only stare as his glasses bumped into Dave’s.

He pulled away, still gripping John’s collar.  It looked like his lips were trying their damnedest not to pull into a grin.  “I warned you.”

“Dave, I--”  John’s lips still buzzed with Dave.  His nose was nearly touching his.  He could taste the Pepsicola and popcorn.  He swallowed.  “I won’t talk about it.”

He wrapped Dave in his arms and kissed that stubborn grin.

[lichlover]

it is the nature of dreams to end

The rules of Fate are as follows: Soulmates are born with each other’s last words on their bodies. When they find each other, they know, as simply and intrinsically as a law of the universe itself.

In this world, there might just be an exception.

In another world, there are no exceptions.

“Have you ever looked?” Taako asks him.

They’re sitting across from each other at a restaurant just pretentious enough to suit their tastes, picking over some sparse-looking appetizers and sharing the odd critique. Right now, it’s the garnishes, feathery and orange and vaguely tentacle-shaped (which, of course, had spurred immediate teasing as soon as Kravitz made the mistake of pointing it out). They sit unsettlingly at the corner of Kravitz’s plate as he pushes his fork into an oddly hued fruit slice, although the prospect is abandoned when Taako speaks. His eyes don’t quite meet Kravitz’s. They’re trained on the space beneath, singling out each thin eyelash one by one. There’s nothing in his voice to suggest anything other than a casual curiosity as he says, “Y’know. At somebody else’s, I mean.”

There’s nothing casual about the question itself, and they both know that, but Kravitz keeps his tone offhand as he says, “A couple times. You?”

“Once,” says Taako, and then, “just for kicks. We were drunk and getting super morbid, I think. That was, uh… that was it.”

“Huh,” is all Kravitz says. Their conversation falters as the waiter arrives with their entrées, and he takes a sip from the wine they’d decided on solely for its absurd price. It’s nowhere near as good as anything of that expense should be.

He’s grown comfortable in their silence, which is something he never supposed he’d do with anyone—then again, this isn’t the first time Taako’s shaken up his entire world. Even this, their first date night in the aftermath of Story and Song, is almost too far-fetched to believe if he thinks about it too much. (Because if he thinks about it, he thinks about how there is no day and night in the astral plane; only the Raven Queen’s enormous sundial casting a shadow where there should be none.)

And yet here they are, passing the salt without having to ask; making fun of the waiter’s absurdly long coattails; coming up with stories about the patrons around them. They’ve decided that the couple opposite them is a pair of long-lost lovers separated by wartime (Kravitz’s idea) and their differing opinions on whether pineapple belongs on pizza (Taako’s, which he’d proposed while looking Kravitz directly in the eye). Every so often Taako tips his chair back on two legs and breaks into light, ridiculous laughter, or recounts a story to Kravitz just above socially acceptable volume, and earns them the critical stares of the lovers, among others. Kravitz can’t bring himself to give a damn.

He’s idling in the residual quiet, wondering exactly how overzealous garnishes are allowed to be, when Taako says, “I wanna make a pact.”

Kravitz pauses with a forkful of entrée halfway to his mouth. “Oh?”

Taako’s gaze ricochets off his and hits the ceiling, which is when Kravitz knows this is serious. “Oh, y’know,” he says airily, gesturing with a glass dangerously full of wine. “Something—iunno, pact makes it sound really—real serious. Not what I meant. Just, uh, that we don’t look. Not until we’re ready.”

If we make it that far. It goes unsaid, but they acknowledge it without a word.

After a pause, Kravitz says, “You know, it’s funny that—well, whoever mine was, they’re long gone, obviously.”

“Yeah,” says Taako, and reaches for his wineglass. “Ain’t that a trip?”

(He remembers sitting in a classroom, listening to a teacher speak in the native cadence of their region because back then, Common was taught as a secondary language.

“Does everyone know what soulmates are?” she says.

The girl next to Kravitz raises her hand. She has long hair and tapered ears and has lived for about as long as his mother and father. “Someone you spend your whole life with,” she says.

The teacher nods. “Most of you have words on your arm,” she continues. “If you do, it means you have a soulmate, that person who you’ll spend the rest of your life with.”

“That means you’re gonna fall in love,” someone whispers behind him, and the classroom breaks into nervous giggling and a few disgusted squeals.

“No,” says the teacher, with a smile twitching at her lips. “Not necessarily. They might just be your best friend forever, and you’ll still be soulmates. Now, who can tell me what those words mean?”

Kravitz raises his hand. “They’re your soulmate’s last words to you,” he says, because he’s heard it from the priestesses at the Temple of the Raven Queen, who tell him it’s not something he has to worry about just yet. The concept of last words to him is nebulous at best, because words don’t end, as far as he knows. He supposes he’ll find out when he’s older.

At the head of the classroom, the teacher nods again, this time in his direction. “It’s a very special thing,” she says, “because Fate is trusting us to find our soulmates on our own. If those words are your soulmate’s last, you’re not going to know until then, right? So you need to treasure every moment you have with the people in your life. Put your faith in yourself, and sooner or later, the words won’t matter. You’ll know.”)

Nearly a month after that night, Taako pushes Kravitz back against the wall of their lavish bedroom and kisses him so hard he sees stars. Kravitz’s hands slide through Taako’s hair and tug at his scalp, prompting a low moan that he feels against his spine, and in the hollow of his stomach, and everywhere. He curls his hands around Taako’s hips and tugs him closer, because they can never be close enough—because his heart is throbbing and his breath is stuttering in his throat, and it might be because Kravitz’s body is out of practice, but it also might be because of Taako. If so, this is a thing he’s going to have to get used to. (He’s perfectly alright with that.)

The moment envelops him and blurs the world around him into a haze of color and heat, and he thinks Taako might have said something, but it immediately falls victim to his fogged-up brain. And then Taako steels himself against him and pulls away, lips parted and gaze half-lidded as he meets Kravitz’s eyes.

“Don’t—don’t make a big deal, okay?” he says, and his voice is satisfyingly hoarse as it skirts Kravitz’s jaw in a rush of hot air. “But I think—I think, uh—I think I’m ready.”

“Oh,” says Kravitz, softly. “You sure?”

“Yes, I—” He scoffs, which is his go-to move to cover a break in his voice. Kravitz doesn’t say anything. “Of course.”

It’s just as casual as his question from so many weeks before, but Taako’s ears are pulled almost flat against his head. Kravitz reaches up and thumbs over his cheek, and with a pleased little rumble, Taako leans into the touch.

“Only if you’re sure,” he murmurs.

Taako looks at him steadily. “I’m sure, Kravitz.”

“Okay, then. I guess, uh…” Somehow he’d expected this moment to come with more fanfare. In the past, there was always an aspect of pomp and circumstance—some grand gesture, a proposal, a long and thoroughly emotional conversation. (And yet this fits them better than anything Kravitz could imagine.) “On three?”

“On three,” Taako agrees.

Kravitz starts to say, “One, two—” just as Taako says, “Three, two—” and then, “Whoops, shit.” He titters, bright and full of anxiety, and shifts his weight where they stand. “Uh, you count.”

“Taako, are you sure you’re—”

Taako yanks up his sleeve, and without thinking, Kravitz does the same. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and when they do, he can barely make out the tiny words printed on Taako’s forearm. What tumbles from his mouth, absent any sort of a filter, is, “It’s in Common.”

“Really? Elvish for ch’boy.” He rattles off the familiarly melodic phrase with ease. “Kinda saw it and thought, damn, that’s—that’s just a cop out, universe didn’t even try with that one. Alright, c’mere, I can’t fuckin’ see.”

Kravitz wants to say something. He doesn’t, because his mind goes blank as Taako snatches his wrist and pulls it close to his face. He doesn’t and he regrets it as soon as Taako says, in the smallest voice he’s ever heard from him, “Oh.”

The silence between them hangs heavier and more uncomfortable than ever before.

“Well, that’s—that’s funny, huh?” he says, at last. “What’re the odds?”

“Pretty good, I expect. I mean, I love you isn’t exactly a weird thing to say to your soulmate.”

“Neither is, uh… I love you too,” says Taako. His ears start to loosen and relax back into their neutral positions. “Okay, well, uh… cool. Now we know.”

Kravitz takes a deep and entirely unnecessary breath. “Now we know.”

His boyfriend sighs, pushing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Well, fucking hell, that was a real mood killer, wasn’t it? Leave it to my dumb ass.” He leans forward, into Kravitz’s chest, flicking his ear against the tailored lines of Kravitz’s jacket. “Gods damn it. Not gonna lie, I was really—super lookin’ forward to getting laid tonight.”

“That’s obvious enough,” Kravitz teases, and Taako’s ear swats his sternum.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles. “Next—uh, next best thing, then. Fantasy Chopped marathon?”

“With homemade popcorn?”

“You’re such a spoiled brat,” he says, affectionately. “Maybe if you carry me to the family room, because ain’t no way Taako’s getting up from this.”

Kravitz raises an eyebrow. “Who’s the spoiled brat now?”

“What did I say? Shut up.”

(The first time he shows anyone is on a dare. It’s early summer, just as their final year of secondary school is winding to a close, and she’s sitting next to him on the swings. Where they go next won’t have any swings. Kravitz is savoring the moment.

The girl’s tapered ears flick as she says, “Bet you ten gold you won’t show me.”

Kravitz snorts. “You don’t have that kind of money.”

“Yeah?” She reaches into her pocket and retrieves a velvet pouch, then tugs on its drawstring. Kravitz just barely catches a glimpse of something warm and glittering before she yanks it shut again and stares him down. They’ve all grown a little apathetic, which he’s told is one of the developments of adolescence, but she’s mastered the art of expression without actually expressing anything. “I’m not a fuckin’ liar.”

“Where’d you even get that?”

“That’s for me to know,” she says, “and you to find out. Anyway, you won’t, because you’re not gonna show me.”

“Really?” says Kravitz. “You’re on. Ten gold says you won’t show me.”

The girl shrugs. “You first.”

He pulls up his sleeve and thrusts his forearm at her. She gives no indication of surprise other than a nearly imperceptible widening of her eyes, but that’s enough for Kravitz. “Ten gold,” he says. “I win!”

She keeps looking at his mark with a slightly critical furrow to her brow, and his heart unexpectedly leaps into his mouth. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says. “That’s just really sappy.”

“Gross,” says Kravitz, with feeling. “Anyway, pay up.”

She shrugs again, rifles through the pouch, and picks ten coins out of it. Kravitz takes them with a triumphant grin and weighs them in his palm. “And I think you owe me another ten, right?”

She doesn’t say anything. Then, in a flash, she turns her arm to expose the underside and shoves her sleeve up, revealing the tiny set of words that sit darkly against her skin. Kravitz nearly falls off the swing. “What the hell! It was just ten gold!”

“My ten gold,” says the girl, and holds out her hand. “Looks like you’ve got just enough to pay me.”

He groans, and does, and can’t help but steal a glance at her mark as he sits forward. It’s scribed in the elegant whorls and Runic angles of Elvish, which he can read, of course; the half of his family that speaks it had made it a point to teach him as soon as possible.

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“I dunno,” she says. “I’ll know, I guess.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, and then he says, “This wasn’t—uh, you weren’t—?”

“Dude, no,” says the girl. “You wish I was into guys.”

He smirks. “You wish I was into girls.”

She doesn’t respond, but her mouth twitches.)

The credits are rolling on their fourth episode. Next to him, tucked into Kravitz’s side, Taako’s eyelashes flutter as he shifts blearily and blinks at the light of their projector—Miller issue, of course, with a world saviors’ discount.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is thick with sleep. “ ’S… ’s really weird, ’bout the whole… soulmate thing.”

Kravitz’s gaze snaps to him, although he doesn’t look any more conscious than he’s been for the past half an hour. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Taako murmurs. “You said, uh… you said ’ey’re dead, right?”

“Who?”

“Your soulmate.”

“Dead and gone.” Kravitz gives a thin smile. “One of the perks of immortality, I’m afraid.”

Taako shifts again, burrowing into the crook of his arm. “Mm,” is all he says. “ ’S what I thought.”

Of course his soulmate is dead. Kravitz’s circumstances are nowhere near normal—he’s met Fate, luminous and ethereal and arm in arm with his Queen, and knows her jurisdiction no longer applies to him. His mark is a remnant of his former self; nothing more. (It’s the closest thing to cruelty he’d ever dare accuse the gods of.)

It is funny, in the sad way that these sorts of things are, because the odds of them bearing similar soulmarks are nothing special. The odds of them bearing similar soulmarks and meeting in the way they had, crossing planes to establish a rapport—those have to be astronomical. Kravitz has to admit it does sound a little like Fate at work.

But that doesn’t matter, he thinks, carding a hand through Taako’s hair and relishing the tiny purr he gets in return. His soulmate is dead, and besides, Taako isn’t the type to say I love you.

(Kravitz’s peers grow up and blossom into beautiful, spirited souls, chasing after each other and comparing last words, trading romanticisms like overpriced wares.

Compared to them, he dies young.)

Taako walks in while Kravitz is sitting at the piano, improvising a wandering melody to take his mind off the paperwork waiting for him at the office. Knowing Lup and Barry, about half of it has been (accidentally or not) burned to a crisp, and the rest is just missing altogether. He knows he’ll find it bookmarking large, ominous tomes that look like they belong at an attempted resurrection. Knowing Barry, he will admit, they probably do.

His fiancé sets an enormous box on the coffee table. Kravitz recognizes it, of course, overflowing with glossy wedding magazines and seating plans and invitation lists more intimidating than the attendees of the monthly ethereal plane poker night. He’s surveyed them all one too many times.

Still, that doesn’t keep him from halting the melody mid-crescendo to say, “What’s that for, love?”

“Looking for somethin’,” is Taako’s muttered response as he digs through the box, flinging aside outdated articles about seasonal color palettes. He gets up to his elbows, shouts, “Aha!” and pulls a bit of stationary out with a flourish. It’s accompanied by a thin layer of dust, which flies into the air and makes Kravitz sneeze.

“Taako,” he says, blinking tears out of his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Taako wags a finger at him. “Top-secret vows shit. Restricted access, my man. This—it’s gonna hit you like the Rockport Limited. Oops,” he interjects, and snickers. “Too soon. Anyway, you, uh… you dropping the L-bomb in yours?”

The question falls nonchalantly from Taako’s mouth and hits the carpet. Kravitz stares at it as he fishes for a response. “What happened to restricted access?” he says, and looks up, and Taako is fidgeting. He’s leaning from side to side and drumming out a rhythm on the stationary, which wobbles under his assault.

Something is wrong, or is about to be.

“Oh, uh—” He so rarely allows himself to show discomfort, even around Kravitz, who’s seen him at his worst and maddeningly best. Right then, Taako looks as if someone’s trapped him in his own skin. “Nothing. Nothing, it’s just, uh… I thought we should probably, uh. Avoid that.”

Kravitz’s defunct heart is ready to plummet until Taako holds up his forearm. The mark is in plain view, as it so often is when they’re together; they have very few secrets from each other, now. “Y’know,” he says, and offers Kravitz a placating, distinctly uneasy grin. “Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Kravitz echoes, and returns the smile as best he can. “That’s… that’s fine.”

“Yeah. Uh. Except it’s—fuck, Krav, it’s not.” Taako sighs and tries to push a hand through his hair, snags it in his braid, and curses under his breath. “We have the most ridiculous fuckin’ marks in the plane. And it’s not—I don’t—forget about actually saying the words for a sec, don’t you ever get paranoid?”

Kravitz blanches, not because the outburst is unexpected—spontaneity is kind of Taako’s thing—but because he’s talking like Kravitz has never thought about this. “Of course I do,” he says, and can’t keep the sharp edge from bleeding through his voice. “I don’t want to scare you, and honestly, I don’t want to scare myself, and if that means never saying the words, that’s just—that’s how it’s got to be.”

He expects Taako to shoot back with I never said I’d say them, or something along those lines. Instead, his fiancé says, “We should figure out some sorta alternative.”

“What?”

“Like an alternative, to—to the words. Y’know.” Taako’s fidgeting is getting worse. He’s starting to wrinkle the stationary between his fingers.

But the answer is so simple, so glaringly obvious, that Kravitz almost forgets to say it aloud. “That’s it.”

Taako stops short of tearing the paper in half. “That’s what?”

“That’s what we’ll use. You know.”

“You know,” he repeats. “And the other—uh, the other person would say…”

“I know,” says Kravitz.

He releases a shaky breath. “Yeah, okay. That works.”

The silence only lasts another few seconds before Taako crosses the space, turns on his heel, and leans back on the body of the piano. He’s almost completely turned away from Kravitz, but his ear is pulled back and set at a tiny decline, and the paper crumples softly in his hand as he says, “Way to, uh—way to overreact, huh? On—on my end, I mean?”

Kravitz raises an eyebrow, even though he knows Taako won’t be able to see it. He’s sure it’ll come through in his voice nonetheless. “You want to tell me you were overreacting, and I won’t, because you weren’t. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“Fuck off,” says Taako, by which Kravitz knows he means the opposite. “I was. Doesn’t even matter. I’m just—iunno, in a weird mood, I guess.”

After a certain point, Kravitz has decided, there’s no point in countering Taako’s objections. He just hums and turns his attention back to the keys; taps out a few short, high-flying stanzas from a piece he’d composed a few months back. The notes resurface easily in his mind, as do the sudden, staccato motifs and the unexpected changes in tempo. It’s all committed to memory, of course, which he supposes is appropriate. Taako, as he’d titled it, has always been unforgettable.

It does take a few moments, but as he follows a chord progression, Taako tips his head with feigned nonchalance. “That sounds familiar.”

“As it should,” Kravitz says, and continues to play.

He’s started to fall headlong into the music when Taako’s arms encircle his shoulders and his chin presses into Kravitz’s head. “Y’know something?” he says. “This soulmate shit is exhausting. I mean, we’re so—so fucked over in that regard. Yours is dead, mine’s probably in another plane—makes sense Fate would get it all tangled.”

From where it rests on Taako’s wrist, a finely woven, iridescent cuff heats up just enough for Kravitz to feel it through his shirt. His fiancé swears and shoots a glance at the ceiling. “No, uh… no shade, Lady Iz.”

Kravitz skims toward lower octaves, slipping into something richer and more languid, untitled. He closes his eyes against the melody and Taako’s warmth. “So we’re the exception to the rule. There’s always got to be one.”

“Says you, Mr. Law Enforcement.”

The astral plane won’t hold it against him for smiling at that. “Okay, I walked right into that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Taako murmurs, and presses a little closer, tucking his fingers into Kravitz’s lapels. “Anyway, you, uh… you’re right, my man. Doesn’t matter how strict you wanna be about it. There’s always gotta be an exception.”

(“I’m worried no one else will have me,” he says, and he says it so matter-of-factly, like he has always known it.

It says something about Kravitz that through the haze of wine and disbelief, with something like a heartbeat fluttering in his chest, he looks at Taako and thinks, I will, I will, I will.)

It’s in the heady, unfiltered seconds after their kiss, with petals fluttering around them and Taako’s veil snagging on Kravitz’s jacket, and the uproarious cheering of their family rising around them.

“Hey,” his husband—his husband—whispers. “You know?”

“Yes,” says Kravitz, breathless, because the world works in mysterious ways. “Yes, I know.”

(“So, like, here’s the deal,” Lup says.

She has a way of dominating the space that Kravitz isn’t quite used to, but feels like he should be. Whereas Taako dominates the room, Lup is the room. She makes it up with every fiber of her bright, enormous personality and, in this case, makes Kravitz feel rather like he’s standing next to a small sun. Her heels rest against their thick, colorful carpet as she says, “You’re gonna marry my brother, and that’s great. You’re also my boss, and that’s great! But neither of those two facts of the universe are going to keep me from fucking you up if you hurt him, at all, whatsoever. Capisce?”

“I—I understand,” says Kravitz, because there is no other acceptable answer.

“Great.” She folds her hands behind her head and fixes him with a radiant grin. “In that case, I think we’re gonna get along just great. ’Bout time Taako’s soulmate made him an honest man, am I right?”

Kravitz blinks. Another habit he’s picked up from the living. “Taako’s… soulmate.”

“Uh, yeah. No duh, Skeletor. You two seen yourselves lately? I mean, I get if you’re not into labels, I just gotta call ’em like I see ’em.” Lup smirks. “Oh, man. Soulmate. I just got that. You see? Too perfect.”

“We’re not…” It surges like an impulse in his throat and breaks off halfway past his lips. “You didn’t know we’re not—?”

Lup arches an eyebrow. “Not soulmates?”

“Well—well, no,” he says, hurriedly. “It’s not that—I mean, I love him, and everything, but that isn’t how this works. I’m a bounty hunter for the Raven Queen, and I have been for a long time, and I know my soulmate’s dead. They have to be. And Taako’s from a different plane, which means wherever his soulmate is, they’re definitely not here. And we’re okay with that. We’ve talked about it. I don’t, uh… I didn’t want to be presumptuous, I’m just surprised he’s never mentioned it to you before.”

Her silence is almost worse than Taako’s. It’s tense and contemplative and Kravitz rocks forward on the balls of his feet, debating over whether or not he should say something, or if he’s earned it at all.

“That’s… interesting,” she says, finally. “He, uh, he avoids talk about capital-E emotions like the plague, you know, so I guess I sort of assumed. But I do have to ask, Kravitz—you never considered the possibility that you two might be soulmates anyway? Regardless of all the crazy shit we’ve been through?”

“Soulmates are decided at birth,” says Kravitz. “That wouldn’t even be possible.”

Lup just shrugs. “Stranger things, Ghost Rider. Anyway, it’s none of my business. Taako makes his own decisions. He’s a competent—okay, no. He’s an adult. But that’s good enough for me.”

He looks at her. Unlike him, she hasn’t once dropped her gaze. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you and Barry…?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, before he can finish. “Absolutely.”

“When did you know?”

Her grin shifts into a softer, more sentimental smile. “Oh, man. Took me a hell of a lot longer than it should’ve. But it’s like they teach, right? You just kinda know when you know. And, uh, I will say, a half century of science and sexual tension doesn’t hurt.”

Kravitz does manage to muster a laugh at that, although it falls short and shallow in his chest. “I didn’t want to be nosy.”

“Nah, you’re cool.” Lup rolls her neck back, then levels her stare at him again. “You know something? It suits you two. This whole defying Fate thing. Not that I’m into rebelling against Her Majesty’s gal pal, but—you get the idea.”

“We’re not really rebelling against anything.” Kravitz glances at the ceiling and thinks perish the thought, just for good measure.

“Maybe,” says Lup. “Definitely six feet deep in denial, if you ask me.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she chirps, and doesn’t say another word.)

With a telltale crackle of ozone, Taako’s glamour settles into place. Kravitz almost doesn’t notice, over the hiss of the stove and his radio, which sits on the countertop and plays a soft, upbeat melody, but he knows as soon as the hairs on the back of his neck curl.

Of course, he looks over when Taako spins on his heel, ladle dangling from one hand, and says, “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, of course,” says Kravitz, lightly. His hand is stalled over the handle of a kitchen knife, because they’ve both decided that his proficiency is with chopping vegetables and not much else. “Just as I would’ve answered five minutes ago.”

“Oh, we are so not getting into this today.” The doorbell sounds from across the house, and Taako sets down the ladle and nudges Kravitz. “Keep chopping. Try not to lop any fingers. But if you do, make it—make it, like, a cool thing, okay? ’Cause that would really be… yeah. I’ll be right back.”

He starts toward the doorway, and just like that, the glamour drops. Taako doesn’t seem to notice.

“Taako, your—”

“What? Oh.” He laughs uneasily. “Wouldja look—uh, look at that! Technical difficulties, just be a moment—”

Static electricity snaps and falters through the room. The edge of Kravitz’s knife rests on the cutting board as he watches. He’s nervous, and he’s not sure why. (He does know why. It’s because Taako is nervous, and by extension, Taako is volatile.)

“Fuckin’—” His husband exhales sharply and curls his hands into fists. “I swear this is—this is so weird, it won’t—”

The doorbell rings again, and Taako flinches like he’s been struck.

“It’s not fucking working,” he says. “The glamour.”

Magic is a fickle thing. Kravitz knows, in his case, one misplaced chord can transform a simple charm spell into a warped, inescapable thrall—nevermind what consequences apply right here, right now. He steps forward as Taako’s knuckles whiten. “Have you considered you don’t—”

“Oh, no,” Taako snaps, holding out a finger. “No, I’m gonna—gonna shut that shit down right now, because yes, I fucking need it, Krav, no questions asked. Now shut up and just—fucking help me get this thing working, alright?”

The silence that follows is broken only by the doorbell ringing a third time. Taako sucks in a breath and jerks his head towards the entryway, and it breaks off mid-chime.

“Figures,” he mutters. “Fuckin’… Silence works just fine, just peachy, but when it’s the one thing that matters…”

“Taako, I think you just need to give yourself a moment, alright? You’re nervous about this, that’s okay—”

He scoffs. “Nervous about a family dinner. Yeah, okay, sure. That—that checks out.”

“Your first family dinner, with people you care about. You do know this is the sort of thing that people get nervous about, right? You know how completely normal this is?”

“Normal,” says Taako. “Now you’re just trying to insult me.” But his hands uncurl and hang loosely at his sides, and his breath evens, and the air thickens. Magic congeals around Taako, much slower than it should, and the glamour settles back into place.

“Finally,” he whispers, just as something hits the wall with a bone-rattling crash.

Kravitz and Taako whirl around as one, and through the entryway comes a faint but aggravated shouting. “We’re coming!” someone yells. “Hang in there, you two!”

“You—you fucking—that’s my door, Magnus, are you serious—”

“You weren’t answering—”

“I was in the middle of something—”

Taako storms into the living room, whipping out his wand and brandishing it at a dust-coated, sheepish-looking Magnus. He glances back at Kravitz only once, just briefly enough to be altogether innocuous. We’re gonna forget this ever happened.

Kravitz gets the message.

(“I’m worried about him,” says Kravitz, and it sounds like a confessional. Everything does in the presence of a goddess.

YOU LOVE HIM, says the Raven Queen, Spinner of Fate and Patron of Winter, Hellraiser of Shadowfell. IT IS UNDERSTANDABLE.

The astral plane is quiet. He suspects it’s something about her domain; the way she can command it from thousands of souls with a cursory glance. For lack of better phrasing, she is quieting the dead for him. And he knows it’s her way of being helpful, in the only way a divine entity can be, but his words are weighing too heavily in the silence.

“He just—it’s little things, but he struggles sometimes and he won’t let me help. At first I thought they were just quirks, but they’re clearly… not.” Kravitz releases a breath that’s somehow trapped itself in his chest. There is no oxygen here. “And he brushes them off like they’re nothing, and I feel like I just have to stand there and—and put up with it. I don’t want to do that, my Queen, but there’s nothing else I can do. There’s nothing else he’ll let me do.”

HE HAS LED MANY UNCONVENTIONAL LIVES.

Kravitz gives a humorless chuckle. “That’s for sure.”

HAVE YOU… PROPOSED A SHARING OF EMOTIONS? The Raven Queen’s feathers shift as she peers thoughtfully down at him. Her stare is an awe-inspiring thing when it catches unruly souls in its grasp, but its fixation on him feels more like a spotlight he can’t escape. CLEAR THE AIR, AS THE MORTALS SAY? IF YOUR SOULS ARE DISHARMONIC—

“That’s irrelevant, your Eminence. We’re not soulmates.”

—SUCH IS MY OBSERVATION, she continues. YOU WOULD BE WISE TO TAKE IT INTO ACCOUNT.

He sighs. Another unnecessary indulgence. “I know. I… didn’t mean any disrespect.”

I KNOW, MY CHILD, she says, and her shadow over him is stark but momentary reprieve. SOMETHING ELSE IS TROUBLING YOU. I AM… IN YOUR PRESENCE, IF YOU WOULD CARE TO SPEAK ABOUT IT.

Kravitz looks past her. He looks to the Sea, which is bright and tossed by non-existent wind. The souls are restless, he thinks. Points of light intersect and mingle under the waves.

“How do soulmates find each other?” he says. “After they die, I mean.”

She tips her head. THAT IS AN UNUSUAL QUERY. AND UNRELATED TO YOUR PERSONAL LIFE. WHY DO YOU ASK?

“I’m just curious,” says Kravitz, and he is.

The Raven Queen hums, low and resonant, and the note sends a ripple cascading outward into the Sea. SOMETIMES THEY DO. SOMETIMES THEY DO NOT. FATE AND DEATH MAY WORK HAND IN HAND… Her eyes glow dimly with amusement. BUT ONE DOES NOT HAVE PROVIDENCE OVER THE OTHER.

The Sea glimmers and ebbs, and Kravitz watches it, picking out the waves capped with light and the souls that hang over them like stars. He imagines Taako’s soul, radiant, outshining the others around it. He imagines it descending into the water and straining for the peak of each wave. He imagines it fading, flickering, and letting gravity drag it down.

They call the seafloor Oblivion, and Kravitz has never seen it.

“So they just spend years alone,” he says, distantly. “Just… forever searching.”

I WOULD NOT SAY THAT, the Raven Queen muses. SOULS ARE NEVER ALONE IN THE SEA.

“But you have to admit.” A wave chases after the toe of Kravitz’s boot, and he takes an inadvertent step back. “It—it seems like a terribly lonely thing.”

He knows when she looks at him, because a chill settles across the back of his neck. It’s almost comforting.

YES, she says. YES, I SUPPOSE IT DOES.)

“Ango!” Magnus’s voice booms across the table and nearly knocks the plate of mashed potatoes from Barry’s hands. “How’s nerd school for nerds?”

From where he sits sandwiched between Taako and Lup—an altogether dangerous place to be in any situation—Angus McDonald pushes up his glasses and says, “Junior high school education isn’t nerdy, sir! But it’s, um, it’s going good! We just started our unit on soulmate lore.”

Immediately the room explodes into questions and crosstalk. Family dinners, as Kravitz has learned, tend to do as such, particularly when six of the eight people at the table each have roughly a hundred different stories to tell. Merle scoffs. “Why’re they teaching kids about that shit? What’s the point?”

“Okay, you—you know they teach that as—as early as elementary school, d-did you not have the basic lessons, or something?”

He shoots a guilty grin at Davenport, whose eyebrows are set in an impressive arc. “I, uh… I played hooky a lot as a kid. ’S not important. Kiddos got no business learning about that soulmate nonsense at this age. Now, what they really need is a good botany lesson—”

“Lalalalala!” Magnus plugs his ears just as Lup withdraws her wand. Kravitz honestly can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. Mercifully, either way, Merle shrugs and falls silent.

Taako catches Kravitz’s eye and gives an exaggerated shudder, and he bites back a laugh. “Anyway,” his husband says, “setting aside that—whatever the fuck that was, Agnes, how’s that going? You make any ’a the teachers cry yet?”

“No, sir, I’d prefer not to do that. It’s pretty interesting, actually!” Angus launches into an explanation of soulmates in mythology, and Merle heaves a very obvious sigh, but that doesn’t change the fact that the entire table quiets down to listen. Taako himself is putting a fair amount of work into acting like he’s not paying attention, even though his ears are just noticeably quirked and twitching toward the sound of Angus’s voice. It’s a rare and undeniably endearing thing.

“Y’know, funny thing,” says Barry, when Angus pauses for breath. “There was this case awhile back—this experiment, where a, uh, an arcanist wanted to try and bring back his soulmate from the other side, right? And he actually managed to do it—and, uh, the soulmate was just… mute. Turns out that was a consequence of Fate, right? Couldn’t violate the last-words policy. So that didn’t last very long. But get this! He evaded the authorities long enough to write a paper on his work, and it’s just—oh my gosh, it’s fascinating. I’d recommend the read. Super heavy, but super worth it.”

“Babe,” says Lup, sounding very much like she’s holding back a fit of laughter, just as Kravitz says, “That was definitely illegal—where did you even get that paper?”

Barry suddenly becomes extremely occupied with his mashed potatoes. “I, uh… research. Anti-necromantic research,” he adds hastily, as Kravitz’s eyebrow creeps upward. Lup claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her snickering.

“Anyway,” he continues, thoroughly flustered. “It went into all this detail about how Fate and Death are governed by different sets of rules, and based on what his—uh, what his findings yielded, he figured if the laws of Death can be broken, logically, the laws of Fate can too, right? Doesn’t mean anything’s gonna stick, but there’s gotta be a way to game the system. And soulmates are kinda the most accessible part of that system, so… if there’s a way, it’s through studying them.”

Taako stifles an extremely fake yawn, but Angus looks intrigued, which sets off several alarm bells in Kravitz’s brain. He hopes to goddess the boy’s interest is in soulmates and not necromancy. “That is very interesting! All, of course, um—all hypothetically, right?”

May life, Death, and Fate herself bless Angus McDonald. Barry almost chokes on his mashed potatoes. “Uh—yeah. Absolutely.”

“That’s really something,” Lup says, and she says it so casually, even though Kravitz happens to know she has never been casual in her undeath. “Breaking the laws of Fate and all that. Makes you wonder if it’s already been done, huh?”

And then she glances at him. Fleeting, innocent; anyone looking on wouldn’t think anything of it at all, but that’s the point. It’s a silent, unspoken something that passes between them. He knows exactly what she means.

“Somehow,” he says, to no one in particular, “I don’t think it has.”

(The scene is a familiar one: they’re sitting on the couch, and the projector is winding, and they’re both a little tipsy on Taako™ brand champagne. They’ve just finished watching a film that felt far less sad than it was supposed to be, mostly because Taako had kept leaning in and cracking jokes about the over-acted dialogue, and they’d both ended up in stitches at the emotional climax. A young woman stands on the beach, watching the sunrise, as the credits start to roll.

“Aw, beans,” Taako drawls, half-submerged in blankets. “That was—that was a real bummer, huh?”

“Real bummer,” Kravitz murmurs. The room tilts around him in a silvery haze, and he rests his head gently against the back of the couch and stares up at the dappled ceiling.

His husband sighs and shifts against him as the film’s soundtrack plays softly in the background. The woman is still watching the sun rise. “Y’know something?” he says. “I don’ get why people make shit like this. ’S just… depressing as hell. No fun. Makes no sense.”

“People tell stories about the things that scare them, I suppose.” There are legends of Death that claim it can wear any face it wishes, that the one you love the most will be the one who takes your mortal soul. He’d scoffed at that—the idea that somehow, Death is responsible for the fears and insecurities of the living.

“Yeah,” Taako grumbles, “ ’n that makes no sense. Like, if you’re afraid of somethin’, you don’ talk about it, right? Like—like forgetting, or, uh, bein’ alone or some shit—”

He falls unexpectedly silent. Still clinging to a thin layer of consciousness, Kravitz tilts his head to look over at Taako.

“ ’S stupid,” he finishes, at last.

“It’s not stupid.”

“Fuck’s sake, lemme be drunk ’n unhappy for once, okay?” Taako slouches further into the blankets, effectively trapping his ears between a mass of hair and the layers around him. It occurs to Kravitz that he could be doing that to immobilize them. “Lemme just—mm, oh, life sucks, shit is whack, Fate fuckin’ hates us and we’re all gonna die someday.”

He goes quiet again. Kravitz realizes he can only argue two of those points, and he’s pretty sure Taako doesn’t want him to.

So he lets his eyes unfocus and his gaze drift again to the ceiling, and his eyelids are starting to flutter when Taako says, “You know—uh, you know when I’m gonna die, right?”

As sudden as he can be under the influence of some very potent champagne, Kravitz looks over at Taako once more. “Where did that come from?”

“Just thinkin’. I mean, that’s kinda your job, so I just—you never said anything,” he says, like he can detect the anxiety bubbling in Kravitz’s stomach. “I put the pieces—assembled that puzzle m’self. Makes sense.”

“Well—I don’t, actually,” says Kravitz. “I could know if I wanted to, but I don’t want to.”

Taako looks at him, through the honeyed glaze over his eyes and past the slant of his lower lip.

“Why?” he says.)

One by one, the IPRE dies.

It’s hard not to blame Fate for the way they go, which is to say, just far enough apart to let the wounds heal before someone else’s passing tears them open again.

Kravitz spends one night in the astral plane offices.

He tells Lup he’s working late, and she raises an eyebrow at him, but she doesn’t call him out on it. Instead she says, “It’s been a month.”

“I think today was a bad day.”

“I could drop in and see what’s up—”

“No, I think he wants some time to himself. Nothing against you, of course, he’s just been… mulling over the unfairness of it all. Seeing one of us would probably drive that home, honestly.”

Lup hums. “Yeah, I guess having a reaper swing by during your existential crisis would be pretty rough, huh?”

When Kravitz doesn’t react, she reaches across the desk and nudges him. “Taako needs his space to grieve. You know that. Angus meant a hell of a lot to him—I mean, he meant a lot to everybody, but they were real close. It’s just… it’s hard.”

“What’s hard,” says Kravitz, a little sharper than he means to, “is trying to acknowledge that this isn’t my fault. Death has a mandate, and we fulfilled that, but that doesn’t change the fact that I took Angus’s soul. And everyone else he cares about, if they’re not still living. He’s taking it personal, Lup. I know it’s irrational, and he knows it’s irrational, but grief always is. There’s nothing I can do here other than my job, and it—it’s awful.”

He exhales shakily and remembers seconds too late there’s no reason for him to do so. Lup looks at him and says, “You love him a lot, huh?”

“Of course I do, but that’s not—that’s not the point.”

A look of pure incredulity passes over Lup’s face. “I think it’s exactly the point, Kravitz. You know he’s terrified of being alone, and honestly, it’s gotta suck knowing you’re gonna be the last man standing. Alive,” she adds, as Kravitz opens his mouth to object. “I don’t care how much free access we get around here, this is still hella different from living. Taako’s got a ways to go, and, honestly… I mean, I’m gonna be real for a second, I’m not gonna stick around until he beefs it.”

Kravitz’s head snaps up from where he’d been examining the whorls in his desk. “You’re—”

“Barry and I,” says Lup, and an exhausted smile tugs at her lips. “Fuck it, we were gonna wait to say something, but we’re setting a retirement date. Not anytime soon, but… yeah. That’s happening.”

“Her Eminence—”

She waves her hand. “We cleared it with R.Q. She figures by then we’ll have fulfilled our debt, anyway. We’re just… we’re tired. It’s been awhile out here, and immortality kinda drags when you know everybody else is gonna kick it.”

Something must have changed in Kravitz’s expression, because Lup laughs a little helplessly and rolls her eyes. “Look who I’m talking to. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t spill the beans to anyone else, because we’re planning on announcing it in our own time. And if Taako gets pissed after that, you can tell him I told you to keep quiet. Let him be mad at me instead.”

“Is this… I mean, part of this is about him, right?”

Lup shrugs, but something clouds over in her eyes. “When Barry and I talked it out, we just kinda acknowledged that as long as I’m around, Taako won’t go anywhere. He’d outrun Death to make sure he doesn’t go before I go. So I guess this is my way of helping him make the smart decision, y’know? It’s not the only reason, but I just… I want him to go knowing he’ll see me on the other side.”

Kravitz can’t acknowledge that. He can barely reply to it, because he’s just realized how very much he wants that for himself.

He wants to see Taako on the other side. Not as an emissary, or whatever other role he’ll be serving after so many centuries. He wants to be there, when the rift breaks through the space between planes, in his purest form. (And, rather selfishly, he wants to see Taako’s soul without the age-old energies that break apart and ripple around it; the layers of interdimensional wear and tear. He knows it will be beautiful in a way neither of them understand.)

So instead he says, “I can’t speak for him.”

“Good answer,” says Lup, and shoots him a waifish smile. “Anyway, about this whole thing—just give him some time, okay? What you’ve got going here, you could power the fuckin’ Bond Engine with it. Can’t break the stuff of Fate.”

“Nice try,” says Kravitz. “We’re not soulmates.”

“Didn’t say that.” She cocks her head and says, “Funny thing, isn’t it? This whole soulmates, not-soulmates thing is in direct contradiction with the laws of Fate. Logically, you two should know by now, right? But you can’t seem to make up your minds, and that kinda fucks up the universe’s whole deal.”

“We have made up our minds. I don’t know where you’re getting this from, but I can promise you we both know. There’s no reason to think otherwise, anyway.”

Lup just hums again. “Nobody’s that adamant over stuff they really believe, babe.”

“I don’t have to believe it,” says Kravitz, verging on knife’s edge frustration. “I know it.”

She rolls her shoulders and pins him under another powerful stare. It demands the truth from him and, more strikingly, makes him feel as if he’s not telling it. “Y’know something?” is all she says. “For once, I think you do.”

(“It’s not my right,” Kravitz replies. “I don’t deserve that kind of… leverage over you.”

Taako’s name is somewhere in his ledger. That page will go untouched until the time comes.

“And—you know,” he adds, because he can.

Taako doesn’t drop his gaze as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”)

It’s a Sunday.

More specifically, it’s a Sunday morning that drips with sunlight and warmth. The sky is a vibrant, impossible blue, like an ocean hanging over Faerûn, clear and depthless for as far as the eye can see. It is silent and whole and perfect, unbroken.

They don’t sleep in.

Taako makes beignets. They’re light and airy and they taste like home, and Kravitz loads their accompanying coffee with vanilla and caramel and whipped cream. As these things do, the newspaper falls on their doorstep, and they read it over breakfast and make fun of the headlines. (One of them reads TAAKO THE WIZARD HOSTS HOTTEST DEPARTURE PARTY IN FAERÛN! and they have to smile over the simplicity of the word departure; like today is the start of a grand continental tour or an interplanar voyage.) The gramophone spins through a drowsy, early-morning melody in the background.

They move through it like a dream—like a languid, sun-soaked dream that Kravitz never wants to wake up from.

At approximately quarter past ten, they stand facing each other in the living room.

The room is too large. It isn’t large enough. A wagon rumbles by and disturbs the cobblestones outside their flat, and Kravitz feels the vibrations shoot up his spine and come to rest in his fingertips. He looms over Taako, too tall for his own frame, cutting a deathly dark shadow through the light that falls through their window. He’s out of place in the home they’ve owned for centuries, and there’s nowhere for him to go but forward.

He does. He takes a step, and Taako flinches. The guilt that immediately drops across his face makes it obvious that he hates himself for it, and Kravitz hates himself, too.

“Okay—uh, fuck,” he says, with a shaky laugh. “Sorry, that—that was some dumbass, uh, shit. I’m fine. I’m fine. We both knew this would be rough, I’m—I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” says Kravitz, too quietly for his own voice.

“No, don’t—don’t pull that with me, I’m—”

“No, Taako, I know this for a fact. No one is fine when they’re about to die. It’s okay.”

Taako holds his gaze for a few brave seconds before his mouth twitches backward into a feral, visceral grimace. His shoulders are shaking, and Kravitz is sure it’s with the weight of emotion before he realizes it’s with the effort of keeping his ears still. With an awful release of tension, the ears drop and pull back, flattening against either side of Taako’s skull.

“Okay,” he says, “alright, you got me, I’m—I’m fuckin’ terrified.”

Kravitz’s heart jumpstarts, stutters, and drops immediately through his ribcage and into the floor, because Taako is telling the truth and there’s nothing worse he could have done. He’s shaking for real, now. His breath rattles in his throat as he says, “I’m—I’m real sorry, I didn’t want to make this any harder on you than it—than it already is—”

“Taako—”

“And I know Lup and—and Barry, they said it wasn’t, uh, anything worth getting worked up over, and—and all the rest of them, they’re gonna be there, and they’re—they’re chillin’, and it’s fine, it’s all cool beans over there in the astral plane, so I—I shouldn’t be, fuckin’, losing it, but here we are, I guess, y’know, this is my life now—”

“Taako—”

“Or—or death, I guess, ha, because, like—yeah, uh, I just—”

“Love, please.”

He breaks off and bites his lip.

Kravitz starts to take another step, and pauses, and when Taako nods, he crosses the full space and takes his husband gently by the shoulders.

“Tell me again what we said.”

Taako sucks in a shallow, shuddering breath. “It won’t hurt. It’ll be quick. I won’t be alone over there.”

“You’ll never be alone over there,” says Kravitz. “Never, ever, you understand?”

He nods, and another violent shiver passes through him and sinks through Kravitz’s chest. “I gotcha. I… I understand.”

They stand in silence for a moment, because there’s nothing else they can do. Taako shuffles forward, and without having to think about it, Kravitz pulls him into his arms. Even through the thickly tailored fabric, he can feel Taako’s fingernails digging into his jacket and pushing wrinkles into the surface. He doesn’t care. Right now, it’s the most wonderful sensation in this or any world.

“I’m ready,” comes the muffled whisper. “But I’m not ready. Y’know?”

“I know,” Kravitz murmurs, and holds Taako a little tighter, because he’s just realized that he’s not ready, either.

He hadn’t thought about himself before this moment, the one marked so clearly in his ledger, in the same elegant Celestial calligraphy as every other entry. (He doesn’t know who writes the ledger. No one does, but right now he hates them more than he hates anyone or anything else.) So he closes his eyes and focuses on the way Taako’s chest rises and falls against his, jumping and dropping off occasionally as his breath hitches. He rests his cheek in the subtly thinning hair that falls around Taako’s face and tries to impress upon his memory how perfectly his fingers fit into the angle of Taako’s waist. He breathes, too, and lets his exhale graze the crest of Taako’s ear. He breathes and he remembers the moment.

IT IS TIME, says the Raven Queen at the back of his mind, and Kravitz doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until Taako steps back.

“Okay,” he rasps. “Let’s… let’s do this thing.”

“I’m going to summon my scythe,” says Kravitz, pretending that his heart hasn’t just broken into pieces, and that his every word is scattering them further to the winds. “What did we say, again?”

Taako looks him steadily in the eye and says, “It won’t hurt.”

“It won’t hurt,” Kravitz echoes, and the scythe materializes in his hand. He’s seeing it for the first time, now; seeing the polished handle and the perfectly curved blade, arcing towards a singular, interdimensionally sharpened point, and he understands the fear. He understands it because he fears it now more than he’s feared anything in his existence.

The Raven Queen’s magic ignites in the veins of his arm, pushing him gently to raise the blade. Taako follows it with his eyes, and then he says, “Wait.”

Kravitz is all too grateful for the interruption. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” says Taako. “I love you.”

And the magic compels him, but not before Kravitz can say, like a well-worn reassurance, “I love you too.”

The scythe falls. It breaks Taako’s body into fine, brilliant threads of light, coming apart like an unraveled seam, and then Kravitz sees his soul. It’s beautiful, he thinks. It’s perfect, it’s poetry, and he thinks of it in simple verse, of how he will be able to recount the way reality unwinds itself for the small sun in their living room. He thinks of it so he will not have to watch how quickly the rift shimmers into existence, or how Taako’s soul is ensnared by its fickle gravity. He thinks of it so he will not have to watch when it leaves him.

He thinks of it so he will not have to think of the words engraved into his skin; and even more simply, on his heart: I love you. A defiance, a promise, a wish.

An impossibility.

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

PROM IN BLACK

"This is ridiculous," Des said.

Shadow stared at her thoughtfully for a minute before agreeing. "You're right. The train is far too long, you'll be tripping over yourself all night. Sutsam!"

Sutsam came forth from where he had been lurking in the corner, bobbing and scraping. Shadow pointed to the foot of Des' dress, and the ghostly tailor set to it with needle and thread, performing some sartorial sleight of hand that managed to vanish half a foot of cloth. Des sighed.

"Not that," she said. "Though that is better. I mean... this whole thing."

Shadow frowned. "What, the dress? We've spent a good amount of time designing it, but I supposed Sutsam could probably whip something up --"

"No," Des interrupted, to Sutsam's visible relief. "I mean, holding this... prom, just for the three of us. I know it's all the rage in the Realm, but... we're hardly Dynasts." She laughed sadly. "If we're counting by blood, I suppose I am technically royalty, but still."

Shadow's softened, then hardened. "Don't think of that," he admonished. "This isn't about showing off or performing social maneuvers. This is just... fun."

"Fun," Des repeated. "With all due respect, Shadow, you're hardly an expert. I don't think you've ever had fun in your life."

Shadow raised an eyebrow. "For your information," he said drily, "I once had a riveting conversation with the former Magnus about the nature of Essence. I was positively lightheaded." He kept a straight face, but Des laughed until Sutsam pleaded for her to stay still. "But seriously," Shadow said, and she subsided. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but... you three are young. Even Star. You all deserve the joys of young adulthood, its attendant rites and ceremonies. Not... not to have to hide your face and wrestle with darkness." Shadow's face was averted as he spoke, watching Sutsam's work, but Des detected a quiver in his voice.

"Like you did?" she asked softly. "What was your prom like?"

Shadow had Awareness 3, so there was no excuse for him not to have heard, but he acted as if Des hadn't spoken. He stepped back and surveyed Sutsam's handiwork. "Perfect," he said. "The boys will never know what hit them."

+++

"This is ridiculous," Seal growled. He rotated his arm as if feeling his shoulder. "I can barely fucking move in this. First punch and I'm gonna dislocate my fucking shoulder, or maybe just rip the damn thing in half."

"You're not gonna get in a fucking fight," Leo said through gritted teeth. He was helping the boy struggle into his tuxedo, a black-and-white getup that made Seal look like a clown. As far as Seal could see himself in the tiny bathroom's mirror, anyways. And it was too fucking tight.

"You're one to fucking talk," Seal retorted. "Didn't you fuck a guy up at the last party you went to?"

"Hey," Leo snapped, rising to his feet and staring Seal in the eyes. "That's out of fucking line."

A heated glare passed between them for a few seconds before Seal broke it off and rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Sorry," he muttered.

Leo closed his eyes and breathed deeply, visibly composing himself. "It's alright," he said as he moved back around Seal to adjust the collar. "I deserved that one."

"Any advice?" Seal asked. "Besides 'do what I say, not what I do'?"

"Well, for starters," Leo said, "don't get smashed and punch the worst guy in the world." He met Seal's eyes in the mirror and they chuckled. "For real though, you don't have to worry about any of that tonight. No paparazzi, no drama, no mess. Just some kids having fun."

"I'm not a fucking kid," Seal growled, quieter this time.

"Yeah, you are," Leo said. "Oughta be hanging out at the schoolyard, menacing all the sorcery nerds or whatever."

"I'm eighteen," Seal countered. "What were you fucking doing at eighteen?" Leo was silent, so Seal pressed his advantage. "You weren't going to fancy fucking parties in full dress," he accused. "Why the fuck should I?"

Only after he said it, at usual, did Seal feel bad. He saw Leo's lips pressed together in a thin line, his eyes in some distant place. After a while, Leo looked back down at Seal's collar. "We're not talking about my life," he said roughly. "We're not even talking about yours. We're talking about what life is supposed to be like. Kids are supposed to have fun, not -- wrestle hellboars or be soldiers or what the fuck ever. It's fucked up that I didn't get to, and it's fucked up that you don't get to."

Seal felt his eyes heat up. Motherfucker. He pressed the back of his hand to his eyes angrily.

A hand pressed itself to his shoulder. "Hey," Leo said quietly. "Listen. I know your whole deal is shitty, and everything feels like it's gonna be fucked up forever, but... you should at least know what a normal life feels like. So, someday, you can start working your way back towards that."

Seal blinked rapidly, wiping a little blood away from his eyes. "I still look like a fucking idiot," he muttered, but without heat.

Leo chuckled. "A little, maybe," he admitted. "But it can't be worse than Star."

+++

"Thisch isch fucking ridiculousch," Star said.

Pho frowned around the bobby pin in his teeth. "Hold ftill," he said. "Allllmoft got it."

Star looked up at the ceiling of the kitchen. Various stains overlapped across the tiles, some more threatening than others. He considered using his new Investigation Charms on them, but decided against it -- he didn't really want to know what Harv got up to in here. At his neck level, Pho was fiddling with a bowtie, the most ridiculous garment in the universe.

"Thish kinda schit never happened in Shkullschtone," Star complained. "Not that there'sh that much fanschy partiesh there. But I got to juscht wear my polische uniform whenever that happened. It wasch cool," he preened for a second.

"Not my ecfpertife eifer," Pho agreed. "There. Got it." He stood back and took the bobby pin out of his mouth. "Now let's get that hair."

"My hair isch fine," Star said defensively, backing away. "It'sch purple and fluffy. No problemsch here." Pho considered him for a moment, then shrugged and put the bobby pin away somewhere in his armor. "What did you wear to your fanschy partiesh?" Star asked.

Pho shrugged again. "Never really had any," he said. "Lived on the road, mostly. Bounty hunter work with my ma. Circus stuff before that. I guess a circus is kinda like a party," he allowed.

"Whatever happened to your ma?" Star asked.

Pho frowned. "She died, and then the Mask turned her into chains for me. He was kind of a bastard," he said. Star stared awkwardly at the top of Pho's head. "Then I got out and turned her into an axe, and we kicked Mask's ass. Then the Sun set her free. It's a long story."

Star coughed. "Yeah," he said. "That'sch, uh.... that'sh rough, buddy."

Pho gestured vaguely. "Old news," he said. "Tonight is for all you kids, not old fogeys like me."

Star couldn't help bristling a little. "I'm not exshactly a kid," he said. "I'm twenty-one. I can drink in Shkullshtone."

Pho raised an eyebrow, a perfect imitation of Shadow's expression. "Well, you won't tonight," he said. "No alcohol at prom. It's the rules. Besides, you can't exactly say you had a great childhood either."

Star leapt to Skullstone's defense. "It'sh pretty good, actually," he said. "Free schchooling and shtuff, a plasche to live, food to eat. Lotsch of plashesh have lessh. And a job I'm pretty good at, if I do shay sho myshelf."

"And how much of that childhood did you spend playing?" Phoenix countered. "Getting drunk and doing dumb shit with your friends? From what I hear of Onyx, that shit doesn't exactly fly." Star was silent. "Listen," Phoenix sighed, "I'm not criticizing the Prince or whatever. I'm just saying, live a little. Uh. Pun not intended."

Star sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which was indeed purple and fluffy. "Schure," he said. "Guessh I'm not exshactly gonna turn down free food."

+++

There was food. There was mood lighting. And there was music.

The Sanctuary had been transformed into a dance hall worthy of the shittiest teen dances. It was dark, and colored lights strafed across the walls (cast from will-o-wisps Shadow had captured himself). The table that usually held coffee and donuts was now laden with various cookies, cupcakes, and at one end was an enormous punch bowl filled with blood punch (Hours' secret recipe, which amounted to "punch someone until you can take their blood"). All the couches and chairs were cleared away to make an open space for dancing.

Where the TV cabinet usually stood, there was instead a podium where Harv was directing a spectral quartet; the ghostly organist bent over a keyboard while the singer moaned about a burning mercy seat. Harv himself was wearing what appeared to be suspenders cut from tuxedo-grade silk, in black and white, with a bowtie at his neck. And on the dance floor, several zombies were shuffling around aimlessly, hands held out in a vague attempt at dancing.

Simultaneously, the doors to the bathroom and kitchen opened, and two of the Shitheads shuffled out.

Pho was wearing his full armor, since it counted as fancy dress; and he was escorting Star, who was in a ruffly silk tuxedo. The spikes of his arm had been artfully incorporated into the tuxedo, each one poking out from a different design; it looked almost as if it had been intentional, an artistic choice. And on his neck, a perfectly tied bowtie. Seal almost choked when he saw how good Star looked.

Seal himself was in a suit, tightly cut in black and red. A little golden pin shone on his lapel, a concession to Glorious First Light. Behind him was Leo, wearing much the same thing, though at least he got to wear sunglasses. "Go talk to him," Leo suggested, pushing Seal forward a little. Seal stammered, but Leo was already off to the food table, so there was nothing to do but push forwards through the zombies.

"Hey!" Star greeted him cheerily. "Check all thish schit out, huh? Guesh Harv thought we needed more danschersh at thish dansche."

"Fucking weird," Seal agreed. "Look at them. I think that one's trying to do a jig." They watched the zombie jerk up and down for a while, its foot dangling from its leg where the tendons had been cut or rotted away. "Anyways," he said, breaking the reverie, "where the fuck is Des?"

As if on cue, the zombies parted. Sensing the mood, Harv quickly switched the musicians over to some kind of military march. The door to Shadow's room stood open, and there they were. Shadow himself was dressed in his finest regalia, good enough to peacock around at a Dynast ball (minus all the arrow holes, maybe), but he didn't hold a candle to Des, and he stood like he knew it and was proud of it.

Des smirked, soaking in all the attention, and advanced slowly. She was wearing a glittering black dress with thorns embroidered all down its length. They grew more numerous as they neared her shoulder, where an enormous rose bloomed, red so dark it was nearly black. Her gloves were of the same color, mimicking her anima and complimenting the dress, and Bloodthorn hung at her side, held by a loop rather than a sheath: present, beautiful, and ready to kill.

Seal's jaw just about hit the floor; he didn't know shit about fashion, but he was pretty sure Des was wearing all of it tonight. Beside him, Star was similarly gaping. Des' smirk turned into a grin as she came near them, dress trailing on the floor behind her like a pool of night. "Hello, boys," she said, extending an arm to each one. "Ready for prom?"

Star, at least, knew what to do; he knelt and kissed her hand, fully mock-chivalrous. "Milady," he said, struggling not to giggle. Seal was too busy staring. "Holy fuck," he said. "If I wasn't gay my dick would be through the fucking roof right now."

"Don't be gross," Des said, swatting him, though she was visibly pleased with the compliment. "Come on, let's dance already."

Seal frowned. "Yeah, but this music sucks. Hey, Harv, this music fucking sucks!" he shouted over the music, which had returned to something rustic and melancholy at best. Harv was conducting like his life depended on it, though, and didn't hear -- until Hours loomed over him.

"Make vay, leetle man," the Dusk growled, and Harv obliged meekly. The musicians leaned closer to see what Hours was going to ask for, but instead the man pulled out a balalaika and started tuning it. Then he let loose a lively tune, and the musicians shrugged and took it up on their various instruments.

"That'sh more like it," Star said, grinning. "C'mon, Scheal, let'sch fucking dansche."

Well, when he put it like that, Seal had no choice but to dance.

+++

They danced for hours.

Des knew some kind of complicated three-person waltz that let her spin Seal and Star around herself in dizzying counterpoint, so fast that Star accidentally gored a zombie on his way through. But it was, somehow, incredibly fun, as long as Seal didn't try to think about where his feet were going and just kept dancing. He'd never thought dance could be fun, not without any swords or anything.

After a while, though, they were starting to slow down; Seal was dipping into his Essence to keep going, and all their castemarks were starting to show. Des' was burning brightest, so he expected her to step out soon, but what he didn't expect was the sudden maneuver that brought Seal and Star face-to-face while Des stepped back. "I'm going to get a drink," she said, flashing a treacherous smile at Seal. "You two have fun."

Bastard bitch son of a snake, Seal thought venomously at her, but Star shrugged and stepped up, holding out his hands. "Might ash well," he said. "Care to dansche, mishter Scheal?"

Seal sighed and stepped into his arms, taking Star's hand in one and nearly impaling the other before landing safely on Star's shoulder. Right on cue, the music slowed to something meandering; Seal looked over to see Harv ushering Hours from the podium, balalaika torn to shreds. Star hummed for a moment then started moving, forcing Seal to follow his footsteps. "I learned thish one at the academy," he confided. "In cashe we had to infiltshrate a fanschy party or shomefing."

They stepped back and forth for a while. In the distance, Seal spotted Shadow and Harv slow dancing, so he tried to copy them. Anything to avoid the sheer awkwardness, to not have to look Star in the eyes. Shadow and Harv weren't look at each other either, though as they rotated Seal caught the same look of contentment on both their faces. Ugh. Disgusting.

"Scho how do you like your firscht dansche?" Star asked, drawing Seal back to himself. "I'm guesching you didn't exshactly do a lot of dansching in Fortitude or whatever."

Seal shrugged, hoping that Star could see or at least feel it. "It's fucking weird," he said. "It's... fun, I guess. I thought I'd hate it."

"Way better than the danschesh at the academy," Star agreed. "That wash all formal and shtuff. Thish ish nische, though. Jusht ush and our friendsh. And a doshen schombiesh, I guesh, but thoshe don't count."

"Yeah," Seal said. "Just us kids."

+++

A few hours later, the Sanctuary was empty. Forlorn decorations littered the floor, and the refreshment table looked like it had been stampeded. Shadow sat on a folding chair as the zombies slowly picked up the remaining detritus of the dance. Suddenly a shadow loomed -- well, not over him, since Shadow was taller than Phoenix even sitting down, but in front of him.

"Hey," said Phoenix, removing his spiky helmet and setting it on the table. "I think that was a success."

Shadow smiled wearily. "Yes," he said, "I think so too." He raised an eyebrow at Phoenix. "I didn't see you on the floor, much. What's the matter, shy?"

Phoenix chuckled a little. "Dancing's not really my thing. I can shuffle, kinda."

Shadow rose to his feet. "Well, we can't have the kids outshining their teachers, or we'll all lose face. Would you give me the honor of this dance, sir Phoenix?"

Phoenix looked around skeptically at the zombies sweeping up and the lack of music, but he followed Shadow out onto the floor. With a sweeping gesture Shadow banished the zombies to the edges of the room, took Phoenix's hand and set it on his waist, hummed for a moment, then imperiously stepped forward.

Shadow had learned the dance a long time ago, and it was buried deep in his muscle memory: designed to be an easy one for the follower and a difficult one for the leader, though he knew both parts. A memory flashed into his mind, of dancing it with a different partner, and he sighed. "So young," he murmured.

Phoenix grunted in agreement. "Seal was thirteen when he exalted. Just a kid."

They revolved slowly on the spot for a moment, Shadow's feet dancing lightly around Phoenix's. It was a while before either of them spoke again.

"When I was young," Shadow said, "I watched the other children. They were pampered, I thought. They slept on soft beds and ate delicious food and played for hours at a time without any worry in the world. It was an unimaginable luxury."

Phoenix sighed. "That's what kids need," he said. "Safety, comfort, they need to know that things are okay. They deserve happiness. It's not their fault they never get it."

Shadow nodded sadly. "Sometimes," he said, "I think about dropping it all -- the quest, the burdens, everything -- and just... living with them. Taking care of them. Making sure they never have to go through what we went through, or even what they've been through already."

"I tried that," Phoenix said. "Rescued a whole damn buncha kids from Dowager. You heard about Sachi, right?" He shook his head. "That kid's gonna be an adventurer no matter what I do. Gonna get into all sorts of trouble." Resignation mixed with pride in his voice.

"Perhaps that's true," Shadow agreed. "Perhaps all we can do is... make them secure in themselves, to weather the storms that must come."

Phoenix sighed. "That's all you ever can do," he said. "Can't fight everything for them, even if you want to. I mean, big things, sure. But they gotta learn for themselves, too."

Shadow nodded. "Nevertheless," he said, "I wish they didn't have to." He looked down and saw Phoenix grimacing.

"Me too," Phoenix said. "Me too."

[captainlilyuniverseworld]

Matching Gowns

Mainly PWP, but I was a little bummed that you can’t have really having a comment about matching gowns with Vivienne if your Inquisitor is male, so I wrote a little something about my male Trevelyan being put into a dress by Vivienne for a little party and he and Iron Bull enjoying some alone time. 

Rating: M

Pairing: M!Trevelyan/Iron Bull

                                          Matching Gowns

“Stop squirming,” Vivienne scolded as she gripped the laces holding the bodice around the Inquisitor's waist. “I’ll have to start over and I know you wouldn’t want that.”

“Vivienne...when I said ‘matching gowns’, I was...joking…” he groaned and instead tightened his grip on the bedpost he was holding onto. “I didn’t...think you’d take me seriously.”

“It’s only for one night,” Vivienne replied. “Everyone’s getting dressed up and I had it made especially for you.”

She gave one final pull and tied the laces before taking a step back. Reylon slowly turned and leaned back against the post.

“I can hardly breathe in this thing…” he said.

“You’re going to be fine,” she replied. “Trust me, darling.”

“I want to...but the way you’re smiling at me is making me want to turn and run,” he admitted. “Or, that I should’ve gone with the Chargers to the cafe…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take excellent care of you,” she mused as she stepped closer. “Now, have you ever had a wax before?”

“...If there is a Maker, please let him strike me down…” he whimpered.

“There, finished,” Vivienne took a step back to appraise her work and smiled. “You can relax now, you’re perfect.” She helped him turn to face the mirror and he almost didn’t recognize himself.

The dress was blue crushed velvet with white pearls sewn along the neckline. It reminded him of some of the gowns he’d seen at the Winter Ball and it was almost crazy to think that had been nearly a year ago.

She hadn’t down much to his face except for a little powder to cover the scars on his face, save for the faint one going through his right eye, and added a bit more rogue to his lips. His hair, which had grown a bit longer was pinned in place with a jewel-encrusted hairpin.

Vivienne came and stood next to his elbow with a gold face mask in her hands. “I did a marvelous job if I do say so myself.”

“I don’t even want to know how you got my measurements…” Reylon told her as she secured the mask on his face.

She laughed. “Allow me a moment to change and then we’ll go and join the others in the main hall for the party.”

“Party...right…” he nodded a little nervous.

“Relax,” Vivienne assured him. “Everyone will be to busy celebrating to pay any mind, think of it as a time to relax, and have fun.”

“That’s not necessarily why I’m nervous,” he replied.

She gave him a knowing smile. “As I said, relax.”

It was another hour before Reylon and Vivienne made their way to the large ballroom. It was already filled with people in various outfits and masks. He spotted who assumed was Cassandra and Leliana off to the side.

“Mingle darling, mingle,” Vivienne said as she walked over to a group of nobles.

Reylon looked around and walked, half stumbled (he wasn’t used to the heels) over to who he definitely recognized as Dorian, who looked at him with an amused smirk.

“Don’t you look lovely this evening,” he greeted.

“Jealous?” Reylon resisted to the urge to lean against the wall as he’d rather not invoke the wrath of Madame de Fer.

“Hardly,” Dorian mused. “I can breathe.”

“Haha,” Reylon rolled his eyes.

Dorian smiled and set his drink aside. “How about a dance hmm? Take your mind off your aching feet.”

“I lead,” Reylon said.

“I swear if one more man tries to pinch my ass, I’m going to show him what’s really under my skirts,” Reylon muttered as he walked out onto the balcony.

“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” Vivienne smiled as she joined him.

“I am having fun,” Reylon nodded and braced his hands on the balcony ledge. He looked down into the courtyard where Blackwall and Josephine were sitting on one of the marble benches.

“But you’re missing a certain someone?” she mused.

“Is it obvious?” He chuckled and sighed.

“Come with me,” she took his arm and led him back through the hall to the section of rooms. “You lasted longer than I thought you would given all the primping. I’m impressed.” She led him back to his room and stopped outside the door. “In any case, I’ve much bigger plans for Santinalia.”

“...You're not putting me in another dress are you?” he asked.

“We’ll see~,” she answered as she walked away.

Reylon chuckled and reached up to take off his mask as he walked into his room and shut the door behind him. He took an automatic step back when he saw Bull reclining in one of the chairs by the fireplace.

“Don’t you look lovely,” Bull smirked as he stood up. “Gotta say, it was really hard keeping my hands off you the whole night.”

“You were at the party? How did I not see you?” Reylon frowned.

“Ex-benhasrath remember?” Bull chuckled as walked over. “Though, I was close to doing something when you and Dorian were out there twirling around the dancefloor.”

“Jealous?” Reylon teased lightly.

“Incredibly,” Bull said as he leaned down to kiss him.

“I love where this going, but I can’t breathe,” Reylon leaned back against the door. “Help me get this off?”

“So soon? Thought we could have some fun,” Bull pouted.

“What? Seriously?” Reylon blinked. “With me...in this?”

“If you’re uncomfortable we don’t have to,” Bull answered. “But I’m not opposed to it.”

“I am uncomfortable...but not in that sense,” Reylon answered. “I could do without this thing crushing my insides, but I also don’t want to rip it.”

“I’ll get you another one,” Bull replied. “Maybe a couple different colors.”

Reylon laughed a little until he realized Bull was serious and blushed. He reached up and ran a hand through his hair.

“That’s uh...that’s not necessary…” Reylon stammered.

“Maybe I want to,” Bull told him. He took his hand and started to lead him towards the bed. He sat down with Reylon standing between his legs. “If it makes you happy, I’m happy to do it.”

“It makes me a little happy,” Reylon admitted. “I don’t feel...you know, but I mean, I do kinda like it. But it doesn’t have to be anything extravagant.”

“Whatever you want kadan,” Bull leaned in and kissed him as he ran his hands under the dress to grasp his legs and pull him into his lap. “Smooth.”

“She had everything waxed,” Reylon gasped. “Everything.”

Bull flipped them and pressed Reylon down into the bed. He smirked as his fingers found the garter around his thigh and pulled it so it smacked against his skin.

“Definitely getting more of these,” Bull grinned.

Reylon yelped as Bull grabbed both legs to hang them over his shoulders. He reached back to hold onto the headboard and heard the tearing of fabric as Bull ripped his small cloths. He gasped as Bull licked the underside of his cock before taking him into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he moaned as he sucked on the rim of his hole and crossed his legs at the ankles holding Bull in place.

Reylon was vaguely aware of the oiled fingers that began easing into him and thrusting at a languid pace. He clenched around them with a half whine half moan. He tried to spur him on and groaned when Bull pulled away.

“Patience,” Bull kissed the inside of his ankle.

Reylon bit his lip and listened as Bull maneuvered himself out of the rest of his clothing and started to slick himself up. “Gonna hurt yourself one day.”

“Death from sex? I could live with that,” Reylon said. He let go of the headboard to hike the dress up.

Bull laughed and nudged his legs apart. “Breathe,” he instructed as he carefully started to ease into him.

Reylon fisted the sheets and tried not to squeeze at the burn. Bull stroked his thigh. “Easy.” He rocked forward a little and sank deeper. “Fuck you look so good like this.”

“Ye...yeah?” Reylon swallowed thickly.

“Split open on my cock, dress all wrinkled, stockings ripped, skin such a pretty pink,” Bull smirked. “But is it missing something.” He reached up to grab the neckline of the bodice and pulled.

“Andraste’s tits,” Reylon shivered and squirmed a little as his nipples hardened from the sudden rush of air on his chest.

“Mmm, more like your tits,” Bull corrected.

“Sh...shut up,” Reylon blushed and shivered again as Bull ran a hand up his torso to pinch his right nipple. “You gonna fu...fuck me, or just look?”

“Can’t I do both?” Bull asked.

“I will fuck you myself if you don’t move your qunari ass,” Reylon huffed.

Bull smirked, and Reylon hardly had time to blink as Bull managed to switch their positions so he was straddling the qunari. He let out a small whimper as the last few inches of Bull slid inside him and he braced his hands on the other man’s chest.

“Vivienne is going to skin you alive,” Reylon gasped as he rocked his hips. “All the hard work that went into the dress? The pearls alone.”

“Hmm?” Bull was watching the way Reylon worked himself on his cock.

The dress hung off his shoulders, the front ripped open showing off his torso, chest heaving with each breath and abdominal muscles working with his movement. He grabbed Reylon’s wrist when the inquisitor moved to part the dress in order to stroke himself off.

“Nope, want you to come just like this,” Bull licked his lip.

“Fuck,” Reylon swore and dug his fingers into Bull’s chest when he thrust up as Reylon came back down.

Two more had Reylon clenching around him as he came. The bed began to rock on its frames as Bull flipped them once more, thrusting into Reylon as he fluttered around him in his post-orgasm haze.

Bull gripped his waist as he came inside him, his free arm braced on the bed to keep from collapsing on top of him.

“Remind me to get Vivienne a fruit basket,” Bull panted. “And her tailor’s information.”

Reylon let out a tired chuckle. “Think the next one will last longer than one night?”

“No promises,” Bull grinned as he kissed him.

*always looking for excuses to write more about Reylon Trevelyan and The Iron Bull. Feel free to send asks? 

[siriuslymoon]

My Wandering Heart - A Michael Gray Series

Requested: No/Yes

Pairings: Michael Gray x reader

Warnings: negativity towards Roma people on Michael’s part as on the show, but not too severe. Kinda long authors note at the beginning, Sorry!

(Gif from: @dreammetheworld)

{In this Michael is quite negative towards the Romany people, and I want to be clear that I do not supporting this. I am part Romany myself, from my Mum’s side, and don’t want to cause offence. Michael also uses the word Gypsy, which can be offensive to a lot of Romany people if the person saying it is not of Roma blood. And I mention that y/n speaks Roma, but I have not used any Roma text as there are so many different branches of it that I wouldn’t know which and as I am just starting out learning myself- I would most like get it wrong. But I’ll try to use a few phrases soon.}

So you guys seemed really excited about this, and I haven’t seen much writing about when Michael was away so I wanted to do some. I’m going to make this a series, so let me know if you want another part 💕

“Is this really necessary?” Michael asked his mother, for what was probably the tenth time, as they packed up his things in the hospital room.

“Yes Michael. You need to be safe” Polly told him as she zipped up the last of his bags and handed it to some men to take to the car.

“I can protect myself” he grumbled, his glare turning to a wince when he knocked at his stitches, taking a moment to catch his breath.

Polly watched him with a look torn between smug and concerned before sighing.

“This isn’t some question of your manhood Michael. You’re wounded, you can’t protect yourself like this and with Tommy still alive you’re high on the Italian’s list. I’ve already lost a nephew Michael, I’m not loosing my son too” she told him, her tone telling him that there was no way he would get out of this.

And although he didn’t like the idea of running and hiding, much preferring to stand his ground, he didn’t like the idea of being killed either- which would definitely happen if he stayed- what with his current condition.

“Fine, where am I going?” He finished slipping into his suit jacket with a small wince and grabbed for his cane.

Polly laughed, gently taking his arm and leading him out of the room.

“Don’t be foolish Michael, anyone could be listening” she tapped his ear, laughing harder when he swatted her hand away.

“Are you staying with me mum?” Michael asked once they were in the car, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, his body language making him appear much smaller than usual.

“No,” she started “it’s best if I don’t” she gave him an apologetic smile.

He nodded, but his features remained twisted.

She sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder, the pad of her thumb rubbing against the material of his deep blue suit.

“I’ll be fine Michael. I wasn’t the one who got shot at, I can still fight.” She smirked at her son, chuckling slightly.

He nodded, his own laughter slipping though his lips.

“Trust me I know… I pity the poor sod who threatens you”

They travelled the rest of the way in silence.

Michael knew that the Aberama and Bonnie were following them, but it still made him  nervous to see a vehicle so close behind them as they drove deeper into the wooded area.

“Where even are we?” Michael asked, craning his neck to look out the window.

Michael couldn’t see any indications of any sort of house or building that he would be staying in.

“Are you just gonna park me in the woods and make me sleep there?” He chuckled, frowning when his mum didn’t reply and the car came to a halt.

Polly exited the vehicle, greeting Bonnie and Aberama outside.

Michael took a moment to think, he figured the Golds were just there to protect him for the journey, but it was looking like they were staying with him…or that he would be staying with them.

Michael carefully got himself out of the car, sucking in a breath to ignore the pain.

Once he was outside he could hear them, hear the bustle of a camp, the liveliness of it.

His face fell when he realised what was happening, when he realised where he would be staying… who he would be staying with.

“No! No! No fucking way!” He shook his head, already itching to get back in the car.

He saw Aberama grin, turning towards him.

“You’ve never eaten hedgehog, Michael?”

Polly laughed, turning to face Michael with a smile.

Michael paused for a moment, he hadn’t seen his mother smile so freely for quite some time.

But then he looked back at the people around him, ready to take him to wherever he would be settling.

“I’m getting back in this car”

He told his mother and the Golds.

Polly shook her head.

Michael could see he wasn’t getting out of this and began to strop, his jaw clenching as he looked at Aberama’s smirk.

“Fucking witches, the lot of them” he avoided everyone’s eye, digging his cane into the ground as he exhaled sharply.

Bonnie sighed, looking over at Michael his facial expression a mix of amused and.. offended.

“Show some respect Mr Gray, they have agreed to welcome you on account of your blood”

Bonnie held his gaze for a second before realised he wasn’t getting anywhere and tapping his cigarette on Michael’s medicine bottle, starting to walk away from them.

Michael stayed staring into the open space, his eyes trained on no one and nothing, the smoke from his cigarette settling in the air around him.

“It’s best this way, they won’t find you” Polly told him, trying to reason with him.

Aberama nodded “we travel where the wind blows, we won’t settle for long. No one will no where you are Michael “

Michael scoffed but said nothing.

“And You will get better much faster with our healers”

Still Michael said nothing.

“Right, well…we best be going” Bonnie called back, everyone starting to move around them.

“Tell them your grandmother was a gypsy princess” Polly called to Michael, laughing at her son’s behaviour but still hating how he was treating the culture.

He rolled his eyes and begrudgingly followed Bonnie down the the camp, scuffing his heels as he went.

“Was she really?” Aberama asked, his eyebrow raised.

It was Polly’s turn to Scoff now.

“Don’t I look like royalty?”

—

“They’re good people” Bonnie spoke suddenly, causing Michael to jump. But he nodded, leaning heavily on his cane and twisting a cigarette between his lips.

“Never said they weren’t” he mumbled, Eyes trained on the ground beneath him.

Bonnie chuckled dryly, “Right. Course you didn’t.”

Silence settled around them again, something Michael enjoyed and Bonnie seemed determined to interrupt.

“How can you be so hateful towards them, towards us.” He asked, features twisting with confusion and agitation.

They could see the camp now, and despite his current state Michael nearly smiled as he watched one girl wander across the grass, laughter tumbling from her lips.

“It’s in your blood too, whether you like it or not.”

Bonnie told him, before following Michael’s gaze down to the camp

“And Michael if you treat any of these people, with even the slightest bit of disrespect… “

He trailed off, not being too fond of outwardly threatening a member of the Shelby family, but still getting his message across.

“Yeah, yeah. Sunshine and roses mate”

Michael wouldn’t offend anyone, at least not on purpose.

—

Everything started okay, the Golds were going to stay with them for a few days, help Michael adjust, before returning to Birmingham for the fight.

Michael was currently sat by the river, dragging his cane through the water; watching as it rippled and bubbled beneath its touch.

He just wanted a break from all the people around him; they seemed nice enough, to welcome him into their home and all.. but their curious gazes burned at his skin like the pain from his stitches . And their hushed Romany mutterings rang through his ears like a bad hangover.

So he headed for water, promising to stay close, but still wondering far enough that the burning lessened.

He sighed, leaning closer to the river, feeling comfort from the water.

“Careful not to fall” he heard a soft voice behind him say, humour leaking through their words.

He turned to see the same girl he caught sight of earlier; she was prettier up close, so much so that he had to blink a few times and question whether or not he was hallucinating.

“Wouldn’t want to lose you already” you smiled at him, moving to stand beside him on the river bank.

“Do you mind?” You asked, pointing down at the ground beside him, sitting yourself down when he shook his head and pointed for you to sit, and re adjusting your dress skirts around your legs.

He watched curiously as you slipped off your shoes, placing them beside you before dipping your feet into the water.

You chuckled at his interest, “it calms me”

He nodded, bringing a cigarette to his lips and breathing it in.

He knew what you meant, he wasn’t going to question that aspect any further.

“You feeling stressed?” He tried to sound casual, staring into the water and shrugging his shoulders. But when you didn’t answer he looked up at you, finding you already staring at him with a smile on your lips.

“What?” He asked, starting to smile himself, the softness of your gaze making him flush.

“Nothing.” You shook your head, kicking at his cane beneath the water to make him grin again.

“Having strangers in the camp can make us nervous” you admitted, looking into his eyes, watching as he pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Sorry”

“Don’t be, you’re one of us right? You won’t be a stranger for long”

You had turned away before you could see him freeze, his features turning to a grimace.

“Right” he mumbled.

You stayed in silence for a moment, your worries and grudges running away with the water in a way which left the silence between you comfortable.

But you couldn’t help but watch Michael, this stranger.

He was incredibly attractive, his hair was styled, his suit tailored, and of his efforts for his appeared paid off.

 All you had been told was his name, his blood, and that he needed protection. You assumed he had been hurt, you had a vague idea of who his family was so that wasn’t surprising… but you wanted to know more.

You watched how he would flinch when he moved, his features automatically twisting into one of guilt. His body tensing, eyes clenching shut.

And despite your confusion you found your hands itching at your sides, a strong desire to help him coursing through your veins.

“Does it hurt? I could help you, go and get some of th-“

He shrugged, “it hurts. But I don’t need your healing.. I’ve got actual medicine”

You ignored the bluntness of his response, everyone was grouchy with pain you told yourself.

“Well, any time you need it, I can help “ you gave him a smile tapping his thigh lightly.

Your hand lingered for a moment and just before you could pull it away, he settled his hand over yours.

You gasped quietly at the contact, his skin was hot it against yours, his hands much larger in comparison.

“Why do you feel guilt?” You asked, feeling his fingers jump at the question and tighten around your hand.

You suddenly remembered what your parents had told you and cursed.

 You two were strangers, despite the feelings of closeness and you shouldn’t be prying into his personal life.. especially when you don’t know how he would react.

“I’m sorry, I’m kind of used to openness you know? And I could just feel guilt from you an- fuck I’m sorry” you flushed, staring into the water and praying that it would come and swallow you up.

But Michael laughed, the sound shocking you.

 He sounded younger when he laughed, looked it too. 

His eyes were brighter, features softer, his hand even felt lighter in yours

“Don’t worry, don’t change how you are for me” he found himself saying..he would save the wondering of whether or not he meant those words for later.

“And You’re Right, I do feel guilt. For a fuck load of things actually”

“But it’s recent” you told him, remembering his express upon irritation of his wound.

“Your injury-“

“ I wasn’t the only one involved. My cousin, he uh… fuck well he died didn’t he. He died and I lived” Michael’s tone was bitter, so dark and angry that you expected his face to reflect it.. but there was nothing there. 

An upsetting expression of resignation.

“Mr Gray I’m so sorry I didn’t know”

You held his hand tighter, before letting your fingers draw calming patterns over his palm.

“It’s alright… John would’ve wanted to go that way” he nodded to himself, tipping his head skyward.

You didn’t say anything, your fingers stopped drawing their patterns and Michael turned to you,

“What is it?” He asked you.

“John… Shelby?”

He nodded.

“Oh no, Esme!”

He watched as you began muttering an assorted of prayers and phrases, his eyebrows raised as you grew emotional.

“She’ll be okay, she’ll return to her family“ you told yourself, grabbing hold of Michael’s hand again. Shocking yourself to feel so calm from it, from him.

He simply nodded, clearing his throat “Right”

It was only when you noticed the sun beginning to set that you realised you should hed back to camp, needing to get started with dinner.

“Any food requests?” You smirked, beginning to stand up and put your shoes back on.

He rushed to nod.

“Not fucking hedgehog”

At that, and his expression, you couldn’t help but laugh; your head leaning back as you giggled until your stomach hurt, Michael’s eyes following every movement.

He opened his mouth to continue, but the words fell flat on his tongue.

He simply watched you head back to the camp, his body aching to follow you.

“Oh and smile Mr Gray, you’ll heal faster if you’re happy”

He let out a small chuckle.

“You’ll have to help me with that miss..” he trailed off, waving a hand. Suddenly becoming very aware of just how little he knew you, but he supposed that would soon change.

“Y/n,” you grinned “Y/f/n”

“It’s a beautiful name” he commented, taking a moment to cringe at himself.

“Beautiful enough to make you smile?” You questioned, hovering by the trees.

“Yes”

Part 2??

[uchiuzus]

the same space is not meant for us

Everything seems different, but... not wrong, or bad. (5,514 words // sasunaru, pre-slash, and weird location-based existentialism)

a few things to note before you read: there’s a lot of japanese house structural terms in this fic, but the most important one is the souzu (a type of fountain that you’ve likely seen before but never knew the name of). it’s a tube of bamboo that slowly fills with water, spills over, and then hits the ground it’s on, making a noise.

for the other terms, i’ll put a little glossary at the end of the fic, though context clues should get you through.

There's a strange sense of displacement as he begins to surface into the waking world. Something isn't... right, and the grogginess is refusing to let his brain sort out what it could be. Everything seems different, but... not wrong, or bad.

There were no nightmares, his mind tells him first thing.

No nightmares? Thank the gods.

His back creaks in protest when he squirms, unusually sore and stiff. This definitely isn't his bed. And it doesn't smell like his room either—yeah, his room has a smell and he loves it, even if it's mostly of must and old ramen. It meant home, kind of, and where he is right now definitely isn't home. It smells too... dusty and sterile at the same time. Like a super old hospital room.

He reaches up to pull of his nightcap, only for his hand to grope at air.

I'm not at home.

Naruto's never been the quickest at waking up, but he can't remember anything at the moment and immediately shoots out of bed—a futon in a washitsu. Tatami floors, and he stands still to find that he can hear the hollow clap of a souzu nearby.

Definitely not at home? What the fuck?!

His feet shuffle around the futon in a vague panic until they're caught, and he falls right over. The fabric doesn't even smell like him. He's big on smells. Like, so big. Like almost Kiba-levels of big.

These clothes aren't his either—not his pajamas, not his civvies, not his jumpsuit either. They're black and plain and... not him in any way that matters. The souzu continues clapping. None of this feels real.

Prying his face from the pillow that gave his neck a crick, he peers around the washitsu and wracks his brain for the last thing he remembers before ending up here. It's a guest room, obviously. He's smart enough to tell that much. Yeah, definitely a guest room, even if the tokonoma is empty, save for a hanging scroll that says something about fire.

Okay, so he's still in the Land of Fire... maybe.

"Aw, hell..." he mumbles, sitting up. His butt gets that weird, tingly feeling that it does when he's nervous. He... has to use the restroom. Fuck. He doesn't know where the restroom is.

Pushing out of the futon, he ignores the way the tatami feels under his feet—weird, craggily, kinda itchy even if his soles are calloused—and goes for the shoji that leads to the outside rather than the one that would lead to the rest of the house, he guesses.

It's morning, at least. Super early, especially by his standards. Kakashi-sensei is probably still in bed, coming up with new excuses for the team as to why he'll be late when they meet up. The wooden floor of the engawa isn't uncomfortable like the tatami, smooth and a little warm instead since that odd time between spring and summer is warm.

Ahh, I'm gonna piss myself! he thinks in a rush, and darts along the engawa to either find an outhouse or a bathroom. Maybe he should've gone through the house instead? So he decides to go back through another sliding door and hope he doesn't stumble upon someone.

Empty room. Completely empty.

He doesn't have time to think about this because he rushes through to the hallway, tossing his head every which way to get a feel for the layout, even though this won't help him at all. His feet slap over the wood and seem to echo through every hallway, but just as he's about to give up and defile a stranger's home, he runs face-first into a wood door.

"Oh, thank fuck."

Before, there wasn't much time to pay attention to just how silent the house really was, but while he's in there, Naruto can still hear the souzu's claps against stone. Where could it be? The house was... freaking huge (he should know, he just trampled through every hallway possible), and he could still hear it? Who lived here?

"Oh gods, what if it's haunted?" he warbles aloud after washing his hands. The mirror shows blood leaving his face. His heart jumps. Leave it to his luck for him to wake up in a place full of ghosts!

Posture ridged and every movement and step stony, Naruto slides open the bathroom door and peeks his head out. He has to get the heck out of here.

"Okay, okay, no big deal," he laughs shakily, "I can do this, I can make it out alive. No big! Really, I'm cool. We're good. Just dandy, actually!"

So he wobbles down the hallway, not sure of the way he came, clinging to the wall like a bug, and tries not to scream at every creak under his feet. Thank gods it's daytime and not night. He'd die on the spot, for sure. Dim light is filtering through most of the halls and rooms he passes, all unfamiliar in every way, and he obstinately avoids any dark corners. How could someone live in a place like this?!

Eventually, he finds himself back at the room he woke up in, standing next to his futon. Folded neatly at its foot, something he hadn't noticed before, is his orange jumpsuit and forehead protector.

...Okay, he definitely hadn't done that. And when he picks them up to sniff at, he finds they've been washed.

Great, so not only is the place haunted, but it's haunted by cleaning spirits?!

"That's it, I'm so screwed." he laments with a watery voice, clutching his clothes close to his chest.

The house's eerie silence is starting to shake him. He practically throws himself from one outfit to the other and ties his forehead protector a little too tightly. Where are his sandals? Where the heck is the front entry? The house is honestly like a maze.

A ghost maze.

A maze specifically tailored to test his sanity.

Is this even a real house? None of this feels real. He's probably going to die here. No big deal.

So he slips back outside and follows the engawa, and the clapping of the souzu gets louder until he eventually finds its source. The water trickle leads to a stone pond where koi lazily swim around. Living creatures. Not ghost fish? He's not sure right now, but the souzu doesn't stop moving on the account of him finding it. He's either close to the front, or at the very back of the house.

Heck.

He keeps walking. Then, a wall ends his path.

"Oh, fuck." he sighs, glaring at the stone wall.

"Wait, I'm a shinobi, walls can't stop me." He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand and hisses at how the metal of his forehead protector bangs it. "Ouch!"

But not having his sandals would stop him. What if he sticks his foot on something? Dammit. He was running out of options here. He goes through the shoji next to him.

Inside, he clears his throat. "H-Hello...?"

Nothing. Ghosts don't have voices, right. Maybe. He's... not actually sure.

After what seems like no less than three eternities, Naruto finds the entry way. On the stone floor below the wooden step are two pairs of sandals: one blue and one black. Okay. Well, he doesn't have two pairs, or didn't from the last time he remembers. What happened exactly? He can't think right now. Which is which must be obvious because of the color, but...?

The stone is much cooler and his toes curl while he inspects each one. The... nicer pair must be his right?

"Uh..."

No, that can't be right. He plops down, his ankle bones pushing uncomfortably from the stone, and crosses his arms in deep thought. One of these is his, for sure. Unless the ghosts can clone objects. And change the clone's colors.

"Gods, they're so powerful," he whimpers, "Have mercy... I'm just a baby..."

There are steps. Naruto freezes. A staircase is seated into the wall across from him. Steps. His heart leaps painfully and beats in his ears, violently overcoming the silence.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

The steps keep coming. He reaches for a kunai and it thankfully doesn't slip through his drenched palms. If it's a fucking ghost, how on earth does he plan to attack it?

I'm literally going to die. I'm in a strange fucking house and oh gods I'm really gonna die this is it this is it this is—

"What are you doing."

Naruto screams. The kunai thwaks into the wall next to the staircase.

"That's my wall, you dumbass."

The scream echoes through the house, but Naruto's not paying attention to that now. He peeks through his arms wrapped around his face. Pale legs, black shorts, body suit...

"Sasuke!"

Relief floods every part of him and he practically throws himself at his teammate, only to end up on the floor when Sasuke steps out of the way.

"Oh my gods, Sasuke, holy fuck, Sasuke—"

"Stop yelling." Sasuke heaves, rubbing his forehead.

Naruto rolls over and positively beams because it's Sasuke! And not a ghost! Or—

"You're not. Dead. Are you?"

Sasuke stares, unamused. Naruto pushes himself up into sitting.

After a thought, he reaches over to grab at Sasuke's wrist, who hisses and snatches himself back.

"What the hell, dead last?"

But Naruto is busy holding his own hand, crying out his relief.

"You're solid! You're here! Alive! Thank fuck!"

In that way only Sasuke can, he glowers, holding his own wrist.

"You're such an idiot."

He turns on his heel to snatch the kunai out from the wall and then turns down a hallway.

"Bastard!" Naruto calls after him. "Wait up!" His legs have to be made of jelly after all the stress he just went through.

He finds Sasuke in the kitchen, at the stove with his arms moving. He stands and the doorway and stares at the Uchiha crest imprinted on the back of the black jumper, and has a sudden epiphany.

"This is your house!"

The souzu claps again.

The gas stove starts up.

Noise.

Sasuke hardly acknowledges his realization and says instead, "Why are you just... always so loud."

Naruto snorts and takes a seat the table. He doesn't say as much, but he should tone it down. It's rude to be shouting and howling in someone else's house; he knows this much at least. His eyes stay strained on Sasuke's back. Sasuke is barefoot, not wearing his leg guards or his arm guards. Seeing him dressed down like this is weird.

What's even weirder is seeing him at a stove when something is sizzling. Naruto shifts.

Sasuke doesn't talk to him, opting instead to move around for more ingredients to whatever it is he's making. Naruto doesn't appreciate how it makes himself out to be another piece of furniture in his morning, but he can't pull the words out of his throat to complain about it. He shifts. And shifts again. And again.

"Sasuke." he whines, dropping his head onto the table. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, moron."

He doesn't speak in questions, only condescending sentences that strike at Naruto's nerves in all the wrong ways.

"It's not like I can see from down here, bastard!" he snaps.

"Not my problem."

He's right. It's not. So Naruto decides to solve his problem by getting up to get a good look.

"Omelettes...?" he asks.

"Don't stand so close, you'll get burned, moron."

Naruto glares at him and has half a mind to flip the pan onto his stupid, concentrated face.

"No, not omelettes."

"But it's—"

"Omurice."

That's when Naruto spots the other frying pan with rice in it.

He blurts, "I didn't know you could cook."

Sasuke doesn't even look at him, the prick.

"Not everyone can or wants to survive off enough ramen to kill, at the very least, a small army. I'm surprised you haven't dropped dead already."

Naruto huffs. "First of all, I'll have you know that ramen's fucking great." he says. "Second, I don't eat that much."

This time, Sasuke spares him a bored look. Naruto takes it upon himself to plop back at the table.

"So, what, you're just gonna eat in front of me, your honored guest?"

Sasuke snorts, but doesn't answer. Naruto glares, hoping that it's hard and hot enough to burn holes through his stupidly perfect shirt and skin. It'd be just typical of the bastard to do something like that. What an asshole, honestly.

Continuing to, very insultingly, ignore Naruto's presence, Sasuke reaches over the stove to the windowsill to pluck something red from a plant gone unnoticed.

Apples? Naruto is about to say, but apples grow on trees, not small, potted plants. He sees the green palm-like stem. Oh, tomatoes. Right, right, Sasuke likes those, huh?

He's not sure why he remembers that tomatoes are, in fact, Sasuke's favorite fruit-vegetable-thing. Naruto hates vegetables. Or is it a fruit? He doesn't hate fruit—but he doesn't like tomatoes, for sure.

A knife taps neatly against a cutting board. Two more eggs crack on the pan's rim.

Noise.

He can't hear the souzu anymore.

Something is off about this. That feeling from when he woke up is back, only a little, and it's not... right, but it's not wrong either. He can't put his finger on it. He's in Sasuke's kitchen, in Sasuke's house, and Sasuke is... cooking. It's weird, right? He can't be the only one that thinks so, but Sasuke is moving about the whole thing like Naruto's not there.

He's not actually offended by this because it's par for their course, but something else about it just... sets Naruto a little off-kilter. Like, even though they're in the same room—even though he's in the same room, there's some kind of... wall. Maybe. His brain's not picking good words or coherent structures.

Ceramic plates clack onto the countertop. The stove knobs click as Sasuke turns off the burners. Chopsticks click against pan and plate, moving the food around. Naruto watches from a distance.

Sasuke goes to the refrigerator and it breathes open. He pulls out a jar of red paste. The jar clunks onto the wooden table. Naruto stares at it while Sasuke retrieves two plates.

Two plates?

"Thirsty?" Sasuke asks after setting down the dishes.

He doesn't wait for an answer because he's already grabbing cups—two cups—and pouring tea. Naruto notes that the omelette on the plate across from him (presumably Sasuke's) has orangy-red chunks, while his doesn't. That must be the tomato. Did Sasuke remember that he didn't like tomatoes, or was it that since tomatoes were his favorite, he just put them in his?

"Here."

Sasuke sets a cup in front of him. It clucks against the table. Green tea, Naruto realizes. He's never actually had it before, but it's supposed to be good, in the morning especially. Sasuke settles across from him. The red paste jar opens with a pop.

"What is that?" Naruto asks, because he just found his words again, like the table joins them. It feels... weird.

"Ketchup." Sasuke replies, and tilts the jar.

Naruto doesn't know why he thought it was anything else, but he watches it pour from the jar slowly, like goop. He crinkles his nose. Sasuke then takes his chopsticks and slices down the middle of the omelette—it flaps open evenly, perfectly.

"Whoa, how'd you do that?" Naruto asks.

Sasuke snorts. "Leave it to you to be impressed by something so simple."

Naruto glares. "No, seriously! That was like, perfect. Don't insult me!"

He picks up his chopsticks too and is about to try his hand at it when he remembers that yes, he's in someone else's house.

"Th... Thank you for the food." he mumbles, and gods, he sure hopes no blush shows up on his cheeks.

Sasuke's already eating. So then Naruto tries.

It fails miserably, doesn't cut evenly, doesn't even go all the way through.

Sasuke snorts again.

"You musta sabotaged mine." Naruto says with certainty, a scowl lining his face.

"Is it my fault if you can't even manage this much?"

Naruto truly has half a mind to climb over the short table and clobber the bastard—but his stomach growls and stops him. When the heck was the last time he ate? Ah... He really can't remember anything from before he fell asleep at the moment. He wants to ask, but what would Sasuke say? Knowing this bastard, he'd probably make something up to confuse him.

Scowl deepening, Naruto digs into his meal.

"Ah—" he lets out after chewing his first bite, "It's... It's really good, what the hell?" He didn't even know eggs could be this fluffy; he preferred his fried or poached.

Sasuke grunts but says nothing more.

Deciding that it's fine if he discards his table manners, Naruto begins wolfing down everything. His body had apparently been yelling at him for hours now about food, and he was just now realizing it.

The souzu claps.

Naruto stops mid-bite. Silence falls over the kitchen—no gas burners, no sizzling, no eggs cracking.

The souzu claps again.

His stomach flipflops.

"Why'm I here?" Naruto finally asks, setting down his chopsticks.

Sasuke is already getting up to rinse his plate. He eats fast, doesn't he? The faucet runs.

"Bastard," Naruto says again, "don't ignore me! I can't just—be in your house and not know why!"

The sigh that leaves Sasuke is tempered and tired, which sets Naruto off.

"Dude, what's your problem? Can't you just tell me?!"

"If you're not smart enough to remember passing out in the middle of a street after an out-of-village mission, before which Kakashi specifically told you not to go anywhere but home, then I have no reason to tell you."

Naruto draws up short, eyebrows raised. "I passed out?"

Sasuke mutters something under his breath that sounds like, "Wow, you truly are a moron."

Before Naruto can launch into a lecture about specifically why Sasuke is the Biggest Bastard of All Time and list every reason in alphabetical order with chronological sources, Sasuke turns.

The faucet is still running. The sound of the water is smooth.

"Are you done?"

A glance shows him his plate is pretty much wiped down of food, but he doesn't remember scarfing it all down. His stomach isn't satisfied in the least bit. He's a growing boy! He'd need at least three more of these to even be half-full.

Instead of letting Sasuke take the plate, he pushes up and takes it to him.

While the faucet runs, Naruto is tempted to ask exactly why Sasuke deemed it necessary to bring him back to his disgustingly huge house when he found him just laying face-down in the middle of the street. It's not like the bastard didn't know where he lived. He can only guess that the reason he hadn't gone home himself was because he always met up with Iruka-sensei after a successful mission to have Ichiraku's.

Leave it to him to get himself into this situation. It wasn't bad, but... it wasn't that great either.

He takes a step back and glances between Sasuke and the doorway. The house's entryway is... around the corner and down the hall? Why? Why is this house so big?

"You may as well stay until it's time to meet up with Sakura and Kakashi."

The faucet turns off. Silence. Then, Sasuke's feet pad against the wood and out of the room.

"Don't just leave me here!" Naruto whines, scampering after him.

"Did you even make up your bed and fold the clothes?"

Naruto pauses, but Sasuke keeps walking.

I didn't. he thinks sheepishly, scratching the side of his neck.

"Figures." Sasuke responds without knowing his thoughts. "Don't worry about it then. Knowing you, you might tear everything up trying to make it neat."

"I resent that, bastard!" Naruto snaps when he catches up.

They've come into a living room, light pouring in from the open shoji. While Sasuke retrieves something from a nearby cabinet, Naruto wanders onto the wooden porch and glances around. The souzu claps, and he can see it from where he's sanding. The view is pretty here, grass and garden well-tended to. Sasuke must do all of this by himself, but where the heck does he find the time?

He stares at the souzu, watches the water trickle into it, and his heart speeds up. Every second that passes makes the bamboo hollow fuller, makes the tube heavier and that sound—

His heart nearly claws out of his chest when it claps.

His ears adjust to the quiet and now they pick up the water trickle and the rustle of the greenery as the breeze rolls by. Sasuke has closed the cabinet and seated himself on a sitting cushion, big, plush, and white in color with red tassels. Naruto looks over his shoulder at him; what does he expect Naruto to do? Sitting still is so hard, and sitting still in these circumstances? He might as well be asking for Naruto to perform a life-or-death surgery.

"You're so boring." Naruto huffs when he plops onto the engawa. "D'you expect me to just lay here until we leave? Bo~oring..."

Sasuke doesn't honor him with a reply, even when he noisily flops onto his back. The sound echoes.

Naruto stares at the ceiling for a while and his brain gibbers about how high it is, and how he'll never be able to reach it from down here. There's quiet, but there's not silence. The ambient sounds of the outside—water, the souzu, birds, trees rustling—lull him a little, but he belatedly notes how there's no human sounds besides his own breathing. No murmur of nearby people, no vendors peddling their wares, no children crying out of excitement or sorrow. No human sounds.

The souzu claps, loudly. Naruto rolls over onto his stomach.

Sasuke has a ridiculously huge scroll rolled out in front of him and he's reading it with his eyes moving at an alarming speed that Naruto can't keep up with. There's no reason a scroll needs to be that big. Is Sasuke going to read all of that? There are a couple of smaller scrolls sat at the thigh pressed against the floor. Like... If those scrolls were Naruto's house, the big scroll Sasuke's reading would be Sasuke's house.

"It's big." he says aloud, and Sasuke adjusts for one arm to be folder around his upright knee. "Why's it so big?"

Sasuke kind of looks like a young shinshoku training, from his posture to his aura, and Naruto... is a mere spectator. Huh.

"Your house," he says again, though he meant to go on about the stupidly big scroll, "it's big. I got lost like, so many times. I really thought I was gonna d—"

He catches himself before he can say it, but it's too late. Sasuke's shoulders have stilled and his eyes aren't moving.

Die here.

"Seriously, my apartment? Two rooms and a small closet exactly." Naruto picks it back up, "One room for literally everything—y'know, kitchen, bedroom, living room—and then, my bathroom! Which is not much bigger than the closet, honestly. So more like. One room and two-thirds of a second room. Or maybe they're so small they don't even make a half? I'm not sure, I'm not good with these kinds of numbers, and—"

"Naruto."

His voice catches in his throat. The souzu claps.

"Seriously, shut up."

Naruto had fully expected there to be venom, some kind of malice at least, but Sasuke just sounds exasperated. His heart beats so damn loudly in his ears that he's hearing his voice through a filter, and it hardly sounds like they're in the same room. Or the same house. Or the same plane of existence.

"Maybe if you gave me something to do, bastard..." he replies, not trying to keep the words to himself.

Sasuke ignores him. Naruto continues watching while his brain grabs clumsily at things to say.

The souzu claps.

"Hey, how come..." He presses his lips together, but it's a genuine question, so why should he be punished for it. "How come you stay here? I mean—" He licks his lips, trying to ignore his stomach knotting. "It's so big... I mean, it must be a pain to keep clean, right?"

Sasuke hasn't been reading since Naruto almost tripped up before. This time, he looks up and Naruto's heart does a weird acrobatic trick it's never done before.

"It's my house." he says plainly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, but..."

It's not like Naruto has a good argument to that. They really let Sasuke live all alone in this huge place? He... doesn't like that.

"It's different from my apartment." he says for no good reason at all, because it is. His apartment is small and good enough for just one him, just one kid, but a whole house that might as well be a mansion in Naruto's eyes, all for also one kid? Yeah, he definitely doesn't like it the more he thinks about it.

Sasuke, though; he just sits there and stares like he's not understanding what Naruto's getting at, or even what he's saying. Naruto kind of doesn't understand himself, but—

"You. In a big house like this..." His voice is small, it's a little frustrating. Why can't his brain do this better? "It... sucks."

How does Sasuke—

"—even find yourself in here, like? It's so big? How do you not lose your own body here? I thought I was gonna lose my mind trying to find a way out! And that noise—"

The souzu clapping makes everything seem a lot bigger, a lot more empty with the way it echoes through every hallway, every corner, every empty room, every—

"—space that this place practically takes up, oh my gods, like hearing that thing all the time would drive me nuts! And I really thought you were a ghost at first, right? I wouldn't be so surprised, you are super pale after all, but I'm surprised I didn't run into something wearing a hitaikakushi, like? What the hell? And you, Sasuke—"

He wakes up to this every day and just goes about it like it's completely normal? Naruto couldn't deal with that. He can't even deal with it for a few hours! Sasuke lives here, and he moves so quietly that—

"—you might as well be a ghost!"

Naruto's last words hang in the air and Sasuke is completely still on his cushion, staring with eyes unusually wide.

The souzu claps.

How do you even exist here? Naruto thinks. He knows, knows this is Sasuke's house, so it's only right that he feels out of place, but this is ridiculous. Though Sasuke stares straight at him, it's more like he's staring straight through him, and Naruto feels like he's doing the same. Like they aren't even looking at each other. Like they aren't even in the same room, the same house, let alone the same plane of existence.

"Sorry." Naruto suddenly mumbles, sitting up. Shame is creeping up his neck after crawling through his chest. "m'Just not used to it..."

There's not a reply, but he can hear Sasuke rolling up the scroll to be put away. Naruto is about to get to his feet when the souzu's inevitable clap stops him in his tracks. What's he going to say? Sorry? For what, even? His mouth moves faster than his brain, and everyone knows that. Sasuke's house is just so big and he lives here... all alone...

And Naruto, here (here, not really here, sort of here?), can't really look at him properly or touch him properly. It's not like he wants to, but it's weird. It's weird that they're in the same place, but... not.

A clock gongs loudly throughout the house, startling Naruto out of his skin.

"Close the door, will you?" Sasuke asks as he exits the room.

"Don't leave me!" Naruto cries after him, not wanting to get lost. He hurries to slide the shoji close and then dashes after Sasuke, following the padding of his feet. "Where're you going?"

"Didn't you hear?" Sasuke asks. "It's time to go."

Had it already been that long? Naruto doesn't know what time he woke up at, but they meet up at 9AM, and it feels like he's been awake for at least one eternity. This house does weird things to his sense of time's flow.

"Oh." he lets out dumbly, and more slowly follows Sasuke back to the entryway of the house. The walk isn't as long as he thought it would be.

Before he knows it, Sasuke is sitting down, bandaging up his arms and legs. The black pair of sandals are at his ankles, meaning... Naruto scowls at the blue pair. He needs to take better care of his stuff. He sits too and slips them on, adjusting the tightness before tapping the support under his toes.

He's up before Sasuke, so he takes that moment to watch his fingers nimbly wrap the bandages and then follow it up with the black straps acting as reinforcement. He has nice hands. The risen collar of his jumper shifts and there, in ink too dark to be anything but cursed, is the mark that snake gave him. Naruto has to look away.

He wants to say something, but he's not sure what. His brain is too jumbled and confused because of how off-kilter he is in this house that is too big and occupied by only one. He feels the need to apologize again.

The souzu claps and Sasuke stands.

"Ready?"

Naruto wonders if this is what living with Sasuke would be like. Feeling odd and out of place constantly, on his toes and unsure of everything. That stupid souzu clapping at all hours of the day and night.

"Dead last."

Sasuke snaps his fingers in front of Naruto's face, who blinks back to reality.

"Ah—Yeah." he replies, and tightens his forehead protector.

They step out of the house and start walking, but Naruto glances back, even without reason to. It looks smaller on the outside. There are no sounds indicating anyone else living there, but he imagines maybe—as much as he hates them—ghosts would prefer their privacy. He wonders if such ghosts like Sasuke staying, living in such a weird space that doesn't quite exist in this world, or the next.

Sasuke might be a bastard, but no one deserves to be in a place like this all alone.

It's only when they start blending with the morning crowd does Naruto realize they'd been in the Uchiha compound. It's like they've walked out of a completely separate dimension, and it disorients him. He never knew how separated it really was from the rest of the village.

That was his first time at Sasuke's house, and... He wasn't a big fan.

Before they arrive at the bridge, something completely slips out of his mouth.

"You should live with me."

He doesn't think he's said the words loud enough for Sasuke to hear, but the way Sasuke freezes before the floor of the bridge tells him otherwise.

Sakura is already there, and she's calling for both of them, wondering why they arrived together. Naruto is wondering that himself, but he can't linger because his face is burning hot. He runs off to meet up with her.

Sasuke shouldn't live in that big place all alone.

...Naruto would like it for them to share a space. One where he can actually see Sasuke and not feel like he's untouchable.

He steals a glance and Sasuke is ignoring both of them now, staring hard at the river underneath.

There's noise, noise all around them now—the river, Sakura's voice, civilians, other training shinobi—but Naruto swears he can still hear the souzu's clap.

(Naruto doesn't need to exist in the same space as Sasuke. He doesn't, and shouldn't have to, especially not in that house. Not the way Sasuke exists there.

He's still not even sure what compelled him to bring Naruto home, but he couldn't just leave him laying in the middle of the street, where no one else was going to help him. He's been feeling... strange since the attack on the village, and can't leave neither Naruto nor Sakura alone for more than a handful of hours. He has to know they're okay.

...But instead of taking Naruto back to that house, he should've taken him back to his own apartment.

Naruto was right about one thing: It's as plagued a place as anyone will ever see. The dead idle in every corner; they do not groan, they do not creak, but they do hang heavy in the air and bear down on Sasuke's skin. It's not right to expose Naruto to that, not at all.

Sasuke, for himself, doesn't mind too much.

After all, what's one more ghost to haunt where the dead linger?)

(Sasuke almost wishes he could take Naruto up on his offer.)

terminology *you can learn more about each of these by looking them up.

washitsu: meaning japanese-style room. think of every traditional room you’ve seen in an anime with tatami mats.

tokonoma: an aclove usually featured in guest rooms, containing decorative items such as wall scrolls, flower arrangements, vases, and etc.

engawa: the wooden (or bamboo) patio/walkway/veranda lining the outside of traditional houses.

shoji: a door, window, or room divider of translucent paper with a wooden frame and a lattice of overlapping wood or bamboo. these doors slide open.

shinshoku: the male equivalent of a miko, a priest at a shinto shrine.

hitaikakushi: the triangular piece of cloth that ghosts wear around their heads.

[nicoismywaifu]

FYI: Nico’s a Spy - Part 1

Summary:  Nico is the coolest, suavest, Number One Spy in the Universe. Maki is the Bond Girl. And you can't spell evil without Eli.  A Love Live Spy AU! Words: 7245  Estimated reading time according to Hemingwayapp.com: 30 minutes Pairings: NicoMaki are just getting started, with RinPana, KotoUmi and NozoEli(?) in the background. Ao3 link: click here!

His foot flat to the floor, the sound of a screaming V12 wailed through the winding roads of the Swiss Alps.

The man looked in his rear-view mirror and gasped. What was left of his head start had disappeared, replaced by a very quick, very loud and very pink Aston Martin behind him, which regarded slowing down for corners as an interesting idea to try some other time.

He brought his eyes back to the road ahead - just in time to slam the brakes for the hairpin. His tyres made a small squeak on exit. His chaser drifted around the corner in a pool of smoke, tyres squealing for mercy.

With another panicked look in his rear-view mirror, he instead a sigh of relief. Because now chasing after the very fast, very pink Aston Martin was a reassuringly grey helicopter gunship, loaded with two healthy racks of missiles either side. That would solve his problem.

Still looking in his mirror, he muttered a word which rhymed with duck, as he saw the pink Aston’s boot lid open and fire a rocket of its own at the helicopter.

Still looking in his mirror, his heart dropped as he saw the explosion.

And this time, still looking in his mirror, he forgot to look up and brake for the upcoming corner until it was too late.

The black Lamborghini hit the railing both side-on and too fast, and pitched into a barrel roll before gravity took over, sending the car roof first down a snowy bank. Embers were already visible from the car’s underside, along with a trail of petrol and fluids leading to the wreckage.

The driver’s door opened and a man crawled out onto the snow. They inched their way from the wreckage with a gun in their hand. And not a moment too soon, because the car then exploded gloriously behind him, causing him to drop his gun in shock and slide just out of reach.

The pink Aston slowed to a stop; its driver stepped out like they had all the time in the world. Her black hair tied with red ribbons either side, she smirked and drew her gun from her holster before making her way down the slope.

‘Who…’ he stammered out, now face to face with his imminent demise. ‘Who are you?’

‘You don’t know?’ she asked, haughtily. ‘I’m the Number One Spy in the Uni-‘

The man tried to reach for his gun discreetly, but all it earned him was a stamp to the wrist. He groaned.

‘How rude! Now I have to start over.’ There was a small cough as she cleared her throat. ‘The Number One Spy in the Universe, no one does it better than Nico Yazawa: the spy who loves you!’

She levelled her Walther at his head.

‘And you are… Well, you’re dead!’

A gunshot cracked, then silence.

‘And… cut!’

In an instant, the silence picked up into a hustle and bustle in the background as the "deceased" miraculously picked themselves off the ground with a helping hand from the actress. The director made her way over to congratulate the star of the show.

‘That was an incredible performance, Yazawa-san! It’s almost like you really are a spy!’

‘Um, yeah,’ said Nico, her smile not faltering. ‘Almost.’

‘Thank you so much for your hard work! I’m sure the music video for Secret Activities will be a success! But can I just ask…’ the director dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘You’re on top of the world right now – you’re the Number One Idol in the Universe! Are you really sure you want to take a break now? What are you planning to do?’

There was a moment as Nico placed a hand to her chin and pondered over how to answer. She eventually settled for a wink. ‘Sorry! That’s classified information.’

With bows to the production staff and the other actors, Nico made her way backstage to her dressing room, where she flumped down into her chair.

‘I’m almost like a spy, huh?’ She chuckled to herself. ‘I think I can go one better than that.’

The director grabbed her laptop and set it on her table. ‘Now then, let’s take a look at the finished product…’

(If you’re curious, it goes something like Nico walking onto shot from the right-hand side of the screen from a camera angle which looks kinda like the barrel of a gun, before firing her gun towards the camera. And then the screen might go red, and the camera angle might sway back and forth before perhaps fading to black and into a grandiose pop song with lyrics vaguely foreshadowing the events to come, while guns, naked women and naked women with guns all dance around in an avant-garde background...)

(Of course, it’s not exactly like that, because copyrights are pesky things. But you get the general idea.)

There are three constants in this world. The first two are death and taxes. The third is that whenever spies are involved in a story, they come in immaculately tailored suits.

Nico Yazawa was no exception to this rule as she stepped out of the taxi in an impeccable dark grey suit, decorated with designer sunglasses, a white pocket square and a salmon pink tie – more than ready for her first day of work.

Standing before a building which looked high-tech even by Tokyo standards, all silvery, shiny and sleek, Nico allowed herself a moment to take in the sight as people bustled by. But there was one recurring topic of conversation which she overheard. Her ears pricked at one which was particularly interesting.

‘Did you see Nico Yazawa’s new music video?’ asked an excited woman.

‘I did!’ her companion replied. ‘She’s amazing, isn’t she? Number one on the charts and beating out A-RISE, with the fastest YouTube video to reach one billion views…’

‘She’s UTX’s star alumni, with a waterfront apartment in Tokyo,’ the other added, a dreamy look in their eyes.

‘I wonder what she’s up to now… probably laying in bed with A-list actresses or the like.’

‘But idols have a love ban, don’t they?’

‘Oh, yeah. That’s one thing I don’t envy. Speaking of which, how about we get to some of our own “secret activities” tonight? It’s been a while.’

‘Oh, you.’ There was a shoulder nudge. ‘Absolutely.’

It was a good start to the day – and not just for Nico. With a spring in her step, she scanned her temporary ID at the door and was escorted into her first day as an agent of espionage.

There wasn’t any time for getting sidetracked. The first thing to do was report to M’s office to be briefed and receive her paperwork, both probably involving lectures about the fragile geopolitical climate and the importance of her role in maintaining safety and global security. The boring stuff Nico couldn’t really care less about, in other words.

Thankfully for her, her more productive ideas disappeared as soon as she entered M’s reception and saw a pretty woman humming to herself as she typed up notes on her shiny, metal desktop. Long ashen hair, tidy grey blazer, posture perfect.

As a professional, there wasn’t any time for getting sidetracked. As an idol, there was always the pesky love ban. But as a spy, there was alwaystime to flirt with the cute secretary.

It would’ve been the perfect time for Nico to make a stylish entrance by throwing her hat at the hatstand and have it land all nice and suave. But that would’ve required her to have a hat – and that would be a crime against modern fashion. Instead, the woman noticed Nico and stopped typing.

‘Ah, good morning!’ she chirped. ‘Can I help you?’

Years of idol training now came in handy, as Nico kept her voice low-toned and effortless, calculated for maximum flirting potential. ‘I’m believe I’m scheduled for a briefing with M, Miss…?’

‘I’m Kotori Minami, but my nickname is Moneypenny,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m M’s secretary.’

‘Secretary?’ asked Nico, surprise in her voice. ‘That’s a shame. You’re wayyy too cute to be sitting behind a desk all day.’

Kotori giggled – light and sweet. ‘I don’t think my girlfriend would approve of such flattery, Yazawa-san.’

Nico leaned her arms onto the table, grinning as she met Kotori’s gaze. ‘And as for yourself?’

‘I don’t dislike it,’ said Kotori, winking.

‘I hate to interrupt such professional behaviour in my office, but I think it’s about time Yazawa-san was briefed on her assignment,’ said a voice coming from the speaker on Kotori’s desk.

Sighing, Kotori pressed a finger to the intercom. ‘Right away, M. She’ll be with you shortly.’

‘Someone’s impatient,’ Nico said, annoyed at having a good flirt interrupted.

‘Don’t worry,’ whispered Kotori, gently placing a hand over the intercom’s receiver. ‘We can always pick this up later.’

(That was the moment Nico knew joining the secret service was the best decision she’d ever made.)

Looking to get the meeting over with ASAP to resume the more important stuff, i.e. flirting with Moneypenny, she stopped for a moment after ushering herself inside M’s office proper. It’s not that it was strange. Just unexpected.

The walls, the woman’s hair, everything was just so… purple, like a ripe eggplant. Some well cared for plants at the corner of the room, a few scattered comfortable chairs, and a plaque reading simply “M” on her desk.

Her long ponytail swished behind her as the woman stood from her chair to greet Nico. She offered her a warm handshake before inviting her to take a seat at the polished wooden table.

‘Greetings, Yazawa-san, and welcome to the Japanese Secret Intelligence Service! Is what I’d like to say. But I’m actually rather concerned. Can I ask why you thought it was a good idea to make a music video where you prance around “pretending” to be a spy, when you’re actually our newest agent?’

‘It was too good to pass up when I thought about it! Who doesn’t like slinky guitars and sexy women with guns! And besides,’ Nico’s tone turned dismissive, ‘it’s all show business anyway. No-one will think it’s actually real.’

‘And if they do?’ asked M, eyebrow raised.

‘Then I’ll just have to deal with the consequences,’ Nico replied, all confidence and self-assurance.

M made a disapproving look for a moment, before smiling and clapping her hands together to relieve the tension. ‘Confidence is a good trait to have! And besides, if anything goes wrong, it’s your funeral.’

Nico’s smirk turned to a grimace. ‘How reassuring…’

‘Now then, let’s get to business and discuss your assignment. Simply put, it’s the Russians.’ With a stretch of her arms, M settled more comfortably into her chair.

‘Not content with interfering in foreign elections and getting idiots elected as president, the Russians have returned to what they were planning before the end of the Cold War. That is to say, they’re planning for world domination. And this is the woman whose been doing their dirty work.’

Pirouetting her chair 180 degrees, Nico looked to the back of the room where a projector was set up. Definitely Russian, Nico mused – what with the blonde hair and blue eyes and being tall, long legged, plenty of assets…

Not like Nico was jealous or anything.

M continued her explanation. ‘The KGB’s top agent: Eli Ayase. Nicknamed the Fox, she’s clever, cute, and not to be messed with. And as for what they’ve been up to lately…’

Opening her desk drawer, M pulled out several dossiers and placed them before Nico. What stood out most was that they all had a certain bit of Cyrillic emblazoned on them.

Проект Юрий

‘The Russians call it Project Yuri,’ M explained. ‘Through coercion, extortion and a series of defections, they’ve obtained important research on exotic chemicals, neurological processes and rockets. It’s a little foreboding.’ Making a sombre look, she folded her hands together in front of her. ‘We lost a good agent to Ayase in getting these materials. But it’s still not enough. We don’t know how it all fits together, or what their plan actually is.’

Nico felt a lump rise in her throat. ‘This agent… Ayase killed her?’

‘No,’ replied M, ‘not kill. Ayase’s trade is seduction to obtain her information. She’s a whirlwind, leaving a trail of broken hearts and tear-stained pillows in her wake. Something we witnessed in person, as she also stole the access codes to our important databases last month.’

‘All of them?’ Nico was incredulous. ‘Who did she seduce to get all that information?’

‘Um… well…’

Now blushing for some reason, M shifted her shoulders and brought her gaze downwards to the table. Nico watched her, curiosity piqued.

‘So, that might have been me...’

Nico placed a hand over her face. ‘Oh for god’s sake.’

‘I couldn’t help it!’ M shouted, arms crossed in front of her. ‘I was tired and lonely from working all those late nights at the office, and suddenly there’s this beautiful, tall blonde who treats me right for once! How was I supposed to know she was a Russian spy only after our encryption codes?!’

‘It’s actually obvious when you think about it,’ replied Nico.

‘But those legs. Elicchi was a ballet dancer and my god it showed-‘

‘Too much information,’ said Nico, eyebrow twitching. ‘Also, Elicchi?’

‘It was totally worth it; I’d let all our secrets get stolen again-‘

‘M!’

‘Huh?’ She paused, blinked a few times, and then seemed to snap back into reality. ‘Sorry. Lost myself for a moment there. As such, your mission is to track her, and figure out what they’re planning. And due to the gravity of the situation, we’ll be assigning you some special help.’

M pressed a button on the remote and the projector flicked over to the next slide containing a picture and vitals.

‘Maki Nishikino,’ Nozomi said by way of explanation. ‘Prodigious daughter of a family of doctors, top of her cohort at Tokyo University studying medicine. Already published several ground-breaking research papers at the age of 23. If there’s anyone in the world who can understand the Russians are developing and find a way to counteract it, it’s her.’

The lack of a reaction from Nico surprised her, so M turned to find Nico gazing intently at the screen, mouth agape.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked M.

‘No, it’s just…’

It’s one thing being prodigious, but how did this “Maki” get to be so pretty as well? And tall. But again, it’s not like Nico was jealous of that or anything.

‘It’s nothing,’ Nico said eventually.

M shrugged. ‘Ah, well. Your first task is meeting with her, so you can stare at her all you want in person as well.’

Nico’s reply was a faint blush. ‘I… I wasn’t staring!’

‘Suuuure. We’re just about done apart from the paperwork.’ M produced a sealed file from the desk’s drawer and handed it to Nico, who felt the weight of something solid inside. ‘Everything an agent needs: your gun, licence to kill, licence to sleep with beautiful women, and finally, your permanent ID.’

Removing the documents from the folder, Nico’s eyes settled on the small card which she fished out.

Yazawa, Nico

Japanese Secret Intelligence Service

Agent no. 25252

‘Track Ayase,’ M concluded, her emphasis stern. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want to lose an agent to her clutches. It’s a lot of paperwork. Plus if anything were to happen to Nishikino-san, her father has some important connections. Not that it’ll matter if the Russians get their way…’ She looked right at Nico, surveying her eyes. ‘Are you ready, Yazawa-san?’

‘Of course!’

M smiled. ‘Wonderful. We’ll call this Operation Hanazono. And since your first duty is to rendezvous with someone… well, I’m sure you know what that means. The garage is right next to the labs. Allow me to show you there.’

‘Great!’ replied Nico. ‘Just give me a moment.’

‘What so important that you don’t want to see your shiny new car?’

Nico replied as if it were obvious.

‘I have to finish flirting with Moneypenny.’

‘Ah, Yazawa-san!’ Kotori looked up eagerly as Nico exited the room. ‘What’s your assignment?’

Nico rebuttoned her suit. ‘I’m off to rendezvous with a Maki Nishikino, apparently.’

‘Ah!’ Kotori’s face lit up. ‘I know her – she’s an old family friend of ours. She’s a nice girl when you get to know her.

‘And when you don’t?’ asked Nico.

‘She might be a little brusque.’

‘If only they could all be as sweet as you, Moneypenny,’ Nico said, sighing.

‘Have a safe trip, Yazawa-san!’ Kotori waved her a fond goodbye. ‘Remember, I always appreciate souvenirs!’

Practically bouncing on her heels, Nico followed M down the hallway, ready to be introduced to her new vehicle. ‘Is it an Aston? I already drove one before, so maybe a Lotus would be nice…’

‘It’s more… Japanese,’ M said carefully.

Nico’s eyes lit up regardless. ‘A 2000 GT?!’

M sighed as she scanned her ID before entering the garage. With no easy way to do things, she elected to break the news. ‘Nicocchi, I’m sure you know that the economy isn’t what it used to be. There’s been a few budget cuts. And the Department wasn’t happy with footing the cost of our old fleet, so we had to make some sacrifices…’

Nico’s eyes went wide with disbelief as she checked out her new set of wheels. ‘Surely you can’t be serious?’

‘I am serious. And I’m Nozomi, not Shirley!’ M paused for a moment, before placing a hand over her mouth. ‘I wasn’t meant to say that.’

‘And now I see how our secrets got stolen,’ Nico muttered under her breath.

‘Whatever.’ M (or Nozomi, whichever) waved her hand dismissively, bringing Nico’s attention back to the car. ‘What do you think of your car?’

‘What do I think?’ Nico parroted with derision. ‘I think calling this thing a car is an insult to other cars.’

It was white, square and tiny: a metal tissue box with wheels.

Nico got the impression that she could tip it over by glowering at it hard enough, and she was trying her level best. What kind of spy drives a kei car?!

She didn’t hide the disgust in her voice. ‘Does it have any gadgets, at least?’

‘Oh, it’s got gadgets,’ M replied brightly. ‘It’s got all the latest technology, such as a reversing camera and blind spot indicators. It’s very practical!’

‘Does it have rockets? An ejector seat? Can it turn into a submarine?’

‘No, no and no.’ Sensing Nico’s obvious displeasure, M sighed. ‘Do you really have to complain about the car so much? I mean, it’ll probably be destroyed in a climactic moment anyway.’

‘True,’ Nico said after consideration. ‘Fine, I’ll take it. On one condition.’

Nozomi’s response was wary. ‘And that is?’

‘Make it pink,’ said Nico, already walking off in the direction of the laboratory.

The lab was the typical pristine white affair, though with a few patches amongst the walls – and sizeable ones at that. Probably from some prototype projects being run. Watching from behind, Nico observed a tall woman with long blue hair removing vials from a centrifuge. Dressed in a lab coat,

‘You must be Yazawa-san, correct?’ When Nico nodded, she made a polite bow.

‘I’m Umi Sonoda, nickname Q. Naturally, I’m the head of Q branch.’

Nico matched her bow, but her eyes strayed to the other occupant in the room.

A ginger haired girl, making vivid colours in a flask as she mixed their contents together. Umi noticed Nico’s reaction. ‘This is my assistant: Honoka Kousaka. Nickname R.’

The ginger looked up and beamed. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you!’

‘Now pay attention, Yazawa-san,’ said Umi, voice sharp with the sound of someone who became weary of agents ignoring her instructions and using her gadgets for more comic purposes. ‘This equipment will be the difference between life or death out in the field. I cannot stress enough how important it is for you to listen to my instructions and-‘

‘Oooh, what does this button do?’ asked Honoka, her finger already in motion.

‘Honoka, no!’ Umi ducked herself and Nico behind the cover of the lab bench.

*bang!*

An explosion shook the lab, sending vials rattling and textbooks scattering. Not to mention the new, sizable hole in one of the lab walls. Honoka sheepishly rubbed at the back of her neck.

‘Umm… oops?’

‘Every time,’ Umi moaned, hand resting against her forehead. ‘She’s like this every time. But don’t worry, I’m used to this. I won’t let it affect my work-‘

Another *boom!*, followed by Honoka shouting ‘whoops!’

‘The repairmen are on standby-‘

*bang!*

‘We have a good insurance policy-‘

*explosion!*

‘I’m so sorry!’ Honoka begged, facing Umi in a deep bow.

Umi’s patience ran out. ‘Tell me, Honoka: how are you still in this job?’

‘M said she keeps me around because I make everyone else look good,’ Honoka replied brightly.

‘That isn’t a compliment,’ Umi groaned in reply. ‘Yazawa-san, I’m going to need a lie down and some tea with Moneypenny. I’m assigning you one task: prevent Honoka from doing absolutely anything before I return.’

Nico saluted. ‘Roger that.’

‘Umi-chan’s always mean to me,’ Honoka huffed as soon as Umi’s footsteps were safely down the other end of the hallway. ‘Just because things tend to explode around me. Causation doesn’t equal correlation! Or was that the other way around?’

Nico almost felt sympathetic. Then she realised that she was meant to be keeping watch over Honoka, and stopping her from making things worse. But there were just so many red buttons, all just waiting to be pushed. And Umi never said anything about Nico herself...

‘Say, Honoka,’ said Nico, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘What does this button do?’

‘Mmmm,’ said Honoka, appraising the button with curious blue eyes. ‘I’m not too sure.’

The two took a moment to pause, turned to each other in perfect sync and grinned. ‘Let’s find out!’

‘Yazawa-san.’

Umi’s voice was ice-cold, as Honoka took to inconspicuous whistling in the background. ‘Is there a good explanation as to why my lab has been completely ruined in the five minutes I’ve been gone, despite my instructions?’

Nico did her best to look innocent. The task was made more difficult by standing amongst rubble which wasn’t there fifteen minutes ago. ‘I think it just came apart by itself, really.’

‘I could feel the building shake. From explosions, if I had to guess.’

‘Well,’ Nico said carefully, ‘Japan has a lot of earthquakes…’

Umi crossed her arms. Made a long, hard stare. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose with resignation. ‘Against my better judgment, I’ve decided to grant you access to our latest, most cutting-edge developments.’

‘Because I’m amazing?’ asked Nico.

‘Because M ordered me to,’ replied Umi. She opened a bench drawer and brought out two small objects. ‘I believe your trademark is your hair ribbons?’

Nico nodded, curious.

There was a swell of pride in Umi’s voice. ‘These are hair clips manufactured from a special high-tensile weave. Hold it like a throwing dagger, just like you were trained, and…’

With a quick motion, Umi drew her elbow back and let fly. The ribbon spun through the air with a swish, before sticking into the wall at the far side of the room with a satisfying thock.

‘Eep!’

A few inches left of the impact was Honoka. She turned around to face Umi. ‘You’re so mean!’

Umi dusted down a lapel and ignored her. ‘…it makes for an effective throwing implement, capable of slicing through steel cable.’

‘Well, I’ve always liked to dress sharp,’ Nico quipped.

Umi also ignored the pun. Instead, she walked over to a different lab bench and retrieved another object: dull chrome colour, about the size of a paperback. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re familiar with this.’

‘A make-up case,’ Nico observed.

‘Correct. Except this one has a few tricks, to make your charms even more irresistible.’ Unlatching the box and holding it in one hand, Umi pointed out the gadgets in turn.

‘First, lipstick with the power to hypnotise when applied to the target – several colours. Then you have amnesia-inducing blush powder, your standard issue stun-gun mascara brush and… ah.’

Holding a miniature container in her hand, Umi turned to her assistant. ‘Honoka? Rapid expansion foam, quick escape smoke or the highly volatile plastic explosive: which one did you put in the eyeliner tube?

‘Ummm…’ said Honoka, placing a finger to her chin. ‘I forgot?’

Umi pressed both hands to her face in exasperation. ‘Good luck on that one, Yazawa-san.’

‘I have to find out for myself?!’

‘One last thing, Yazawa-san.’ Caught by surprise, Nico flinched as Umi drew close enough to whisper next to Nico’s ear. ‘Would you kindly stop flirting with Moneypenny? It’d be an awful shame if one of your gadgets were to malfunction one day...’

Nico stood bolt upright. ‘Y-Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good,’ replied Umi, smiling. ‘Then I wish you the best of luck on your assignment.’

Honoka perked up, energetic as ever. ‘Good luck, Nico-chan!’

Strolling her way through the exit with gadgets in her handbag and her new car keys in hand, Nico was sure the last thing she heard before exiting was the routine sound of something exploding, followed by a shout.

‘Honoka!’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

It’s a two hour drive from Tokyo to Numazu. Or it would be, in anything except the abomination Nico drove. But at least she could use the extra time to take in the soothing sights and sounds of the coastal beaches when she finally got there. Staring at the sand, taking in the sunshine... the car was slow enough that she might develop a decent tan behind the windscreen.

A high, ornate gate signified that she had reached her destination. One of the Nishikino’s holiday homes. If that wasn’t enough to demonstrate their privileged position, there was even a maid to answer the intercom.

‘Hello, may I help you?’

‘I’m Nico Yazawa – Nishikino-san should be expecting me.’

‘Ah, yes. Certainly.’

The gates parted and allowed her access. Nico found that the villa inside was as lavish as the exterior of the place. After she had parked her car in the garage (and very thankful to be out of the damn thing), the maid greeted her with a bow, before leading her Maki-ward.

‘The young mistress is currently in the middle of writing an important research paper,’ the maid explained. ‘She prefers writing here. There’s no distractions here, unlike in Tokyo. When she was halfway up the staircase, the maid smiled as something else caught her attention. ‘But I think she might be taking a break right now.’

Nico fell silent, hearing the sound of a piano played by skilled hands resonating down the hallway. An encouraging look from the made set her off to check things for herself.

The hallway was almost endless, but she finally found the source. She opened the door and there she was.

She found Maki in full flight. Just caught in the flow and letting the music course through her, as natural to her as breathing. Nico found herself mesmerized at the sight and sound.

With a delicate finish to the piece, Maki reclined herself and let loose a contented sigh.

‘Beautiful.’

Maki started before turning around. She warily eyed the stranger she saw. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m not just talking about your playing,’ said Nico, taking a step forwards.

There was no reaction from the pianist. ‘And who are you, exactly?’

‘The name’s Nico-‘

‘Nico Yazawa?!’ An excited squeal interrupted their conversation. ‘Is that really you?!’

In the blink of an eye Nico found her personal space invaded by a bespectacled, brown-haired woman. Their noses touched together.

‘Oh my god it is you!’

Nico and Maki watched as the woman sprinted down the hallway, out of sight, then back clutching an armful of posters, CD’s, pamphlets, books – on second thought, it was more difficult to see what the woman hadn’t brought over as she ran back to Nico.

‘Could you please sign my albums and my DVD’s and my posters and my shirt and if it’s not too much trouble can we please take a photograph together?’

‘Anything for a fan!’ replied Nico. She took the phone being offered to her and lined up a two-shot selfie. ‘You know the drill! One, two, three…’

They struck a pose. ‘Nico Nico Nii!’

The brown-haired woman took her phone back and marvelled at the picture. ‘Thank you so, so much! Your new music video was incredible, I’ve watched it so many times, the song was amazing, I loved the part where you have the pink Aston Martin with the missiles, it’s so cool and-’

‘Hanayo,’ Maki said, placing a hand on Hanayo’s shoulder. ‘You should introduce yourself first.’

‘I didn’t even introduce myself?’ In an instant, she became all quiet and blushing from embarrassment. Where did the person from before vanish off to? ‘My name is Hanayo Koizumi. I’m one of Maki-chan’s attendants,’ she mumbled, looking down at the floor and shyly wringing her hands together. ‘Do… Do you remember me? I attended one of your fan meetings this year…’

Nico leaned in for a closer look; Hanayo fidgeted under the scrutiny. ‘Are you sure?’ asked Nico. ‘Because I’m sure I’d remember a cutie like you.’

‘C-Cute?’ she stammered. ‘You… do you really think so?’

‘It’s more than think,’ Nico said with a smile.

Maki cut in, her tone acerbic. ‘Very smooth, Yazawa-san. Sadly, she already has a girlfriend.’

‘Awww,’ said Nico, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

Hanayo giggled. ‘Would you like to meet her? I think she’s getting some exercise on the beach.’

Hanayo led Nico across the grounds to the Nishikino’s private beach as Maki trailed behind them. More accurately, Hanayo rattled off the hundred things she liked about Nico’s latest album and how amazing it was to be meeting the Number One Idol in the Universe while walking in the beach’s general direction. It was only interrupted when she pointed and said ‘oh, by the way, that’s my girlfriend over there’.

If Nico had to describe what she saw, she would have used these terms: a ginger-haired torpedo, swimming against the waves like they weren’t even there. When that torpedo noticed the figures appearing in the shore, she rocketed out of the water like she had afterburners.

‘Kayo-chin!’

The ginger hadn’t bothered to use a towel before launching into a hug and a kiss – but Hanayo seemed used to that as she hugged back. Rin nestled her head against Hanayo’s shoulder to greet the others.

‘And also Maki-chan! And…’ Gazing at the newcomer, she made a confused head-tilt. ‘You look familiar…’

Hanayo’s excitement returned ten-fold. ‘Rin-chan, this is Nico, in the flesh!’

‘Wow, so you’re Nico Yazawa!’ Rin said, bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘Rin’s been to a few of your concerts with Kayo-chin! They were all nyamazing! But it’s strange - I never expected that in person you’d be so much more…’

‘Breathtaking?’ Nico asked. ‘Beautiful?’

Rin beamed. ‘You’re much shorter than I was expecting!’

Maki tried and failed to suppress a giggle, as Hanayo gasped in mortification. ‘Rin-chan!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nico, eyebrow twitching. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

Still with a hand in front of her mouth, Maki spoke up. ‘You know Rin, she was hitting on Hanayo earlier.’

Rin moved across to place protective arms around Hanayo from behind. ‘That’s no good - we’re about to get married, and Kayo-chin will be Rin’s beautiful bride!’

Hanayo spoke up, timid but sincere. ‘What are you talking about, Rin-chan? You’re the cute one, so you’re going to be the bride, and you’ll have an elegant white dress.’

‘Cu… cute?’ stammered Rin. ‘No way! Kayo-chin is a million times cuter, so she’s going to be the bride!’

‘No, Rin-chan’s the bride!’

‘No, it’s Kayo-chin!’

‘Rin-chan!’

‘Kayo-chin!’

And so the two began a fierce argument as to why the other one was cuter and by how much. Having been interrupted before, Nico decided now was as a good time as any to break the ice with the princess.

‘So… does this happen often?’

‘They live in their own world,’ Maki said, a smile making a brief appearance before she coughed and folded her arms. Instead, she turned to Nico and took the opportunity to look her over without interruption. If she was impressed, she sure didn’t look it. ‘I wanted to say this before. Idol to spy doesn’t seem like a natural career progression.’

‘You’d think that, but a lot of things carry over. How to not stand out in a crowd, how to ward off pushy men, how to handle pretty girls with sharp tongues looking to cut you down.’ The last sentence was punctuated with a smirk at Maki. ‘It’s perfect preparation, really.’

‘Mmm,’ Maki hummed in response.

‘Not to mention that you have to be fit if you want to perform the choreography I do night after night.’ She made a show of putting her arms up and stretching. ‘I think it shows most in my abdominals. Would you like a closer observation, doctor?’

‘No thanks,’ scoffed Maki. ‘Do you really need to hit on every girl you meet?’

‘Yes,’ Nico replied. ‘That’s why I became a spy!’

‘Not that I care or anything, but you haven’t called me cute yet.’

Nico grinned. ‘That’s because you’re not cute.’

‘Oh?’ replied an unimpressed Maki.

‘You’re hot,’ Nico said, adding a wink.

Maki blushed this time, a finger going up to twirl at her hair. ‘S-Shut up.’ She turned her attention to the other two, still engaged in a furious debate as to which one was cuter. ‘You know you can both be the bride, right?’

They turned towards Maki. ‘We can?!’

The Nishikino family maid smiled as she surveyed the scene. The young mistress was getting some much needed human interaction, a nice change from secluding herself in her room and working on her research. And she was never that talkative around strangers, anyway. The newcomer just knew how to push her buttons (though she would never suggest such a thing out loud to Maki).

The chime of the intercom reminded her that, unfortunately, it was time to return to work. She walked to the screen, finding a motorcycle and its rider – quite short, actually – wearing light brown leathers and a matching helmet. Her visor was dark and drawn down.

‘Yes?’ the maid asked. ‘Do you have business here?’

‘A delivery for Maki Nishikino,’ she said, gesturing to the small satchel bag at the rear of her bike.

The maid eyed the unfamiliar courier and bike with suspicion. That said, it wasn’t untoward for the young mistress to purchase items online, especially as gifts for her friends…

‘Very well. I’ll be down to take the delivery.’

Beneath the helmet, the courier smirked.

‘What are you delivering?’ asked the maid, picking up the clipboard handed to her and preparing to sign.

‘Anaesthetic.’

The maid only had time to look up in surprise before the courier delivered a chop to the base of their neck, sending them falling to the ground with less consciousness than normally advisable. The gate creaked as the woman stood up from the bike and opened it wider. Her two companions rode through in an instant. Their leathers were purple and orange respectively.

Maki’s group fell silent at hearing the unexpected purr of motors, and watched with wary eyes as they approached.

Dismounting from their sports bikes on the sand, they moved across the beach towards the other group with purpose and menace, not bothering to take their helmets off. Clearly not a social call.

‘Expecting more company?’ asked Nico.

Maki shook her head. Rin and Hanayo shifted with unease.

‘I’ll take care of this,’ said Nico, taking a confident step ahead of the other three.

She was surprised as Rin stepped forward to flank her, her fists clenched as she crouched into a martial arts stance. ‘We’re nyaut Maki-chan’s bodyguards for nothing!’

And Nico was even more surprised to see Hanayo also walking forwards to stand right beside her, a bo staff wielded in her hands.

‘Um, Hanayo?’ asked Nico. ‘Where did you just get that-‘

‘I really hate fighting,’ Hanayo said, a nervous quiver running through the staff she held in both hands. ‘But the Nishikino’s trust us to take care of their daughter. So… I’ll do my best!’

The two charged into action, Rin leading with a volley of kicks to try and create an opening for Hanayo to strike. They occupied the attention of purple and orange.  

The brown-clad one broke away from the skirmish and headed Nico’s way instead. Nico scoffed.

‘Martial arts are fine and everything, but all I have to do is take out my gun, and then…’

She reached down to her hip. Then the other. Patted down a trouser leg. And then the other. Then she unbuttoned her suit jacket, checked her waist and finally her hip once more, her opponent closing in all the while.

‘Well,’ she said sheepishly, tossing her jacket to the side and loosening her tie. ‘It’s lucky I learned taekwondo.’  

One on one, Nico was wary as she sussed out her opponent. She also kept her peripheral vision on the other skirmish. The striking thing was the way they moved - more like choreography to a dance, weaving in and out of attacks and countering with lightening footwork. It looked familiar to Nico.

Too familiar.

‘Where have I seen those moves before?’ she murmured, still keeping herself out of range.

Not getting anywhere fast, her opponent showed their annoyance in kicks and punches becoming wild and inaccurate. Tried searching for a decisive blow.

And when that didn’t work out, they turned their attention to Maki instead, who was now isolated from protection. Nico clicked her tongue and sprinted to cut her off. The figure made another sharp turn.

Nico realised too late that she was only acting as a diversion.

Further down the beach, Rin and Hanayo had been separated. Rin held her own against one with ease. That wasn’t the issue.

But without Rin by her side, Hanayo struggled to keep up with her own opponent. She snuck around Hanayo’s strikes, before dancing her way into range and disarmed Hanayo, kicking the staff out of her hands. Hanayo turned to get away, but slipped on the sand.

Tall and intimidating, the purple-clad figure raised the staff above their head with both hands.

Hanayo shut her eyes and brought an arm up to defend herself.

‘Someone… Someone please save me!’

‘Just a minute!’

Eyes opening with trepidation, Hanayo gasped as she saw Rin leap high into the air, aiming a ferocious kick at Hanayo’s attacker. The latter brought up the staff to block the attack. It didn’t matter.

Rin’s foot broke through it and delivered a strike to the crown of their helmet. The figure staggered a few steps, before dazedly slumping into the sand. That’s when the fighting stopped, as the other two switched their attentions to recovering their stricken member. Nico moved to pursue them, but…

‘Rin-chan? Rin-chan!’

Hanayo and Maki hovered over a distressed Rin – tears in her eyes and a swollen foot Nico could see from metres away. Maki got to her knees, before she extended a hand and gingerly pressed it against the base of Rin’s foot. Rin flinched from the touch and groaned.

‘Hanayo.’ Maki’s voice was low. ‘Please go into the house and bring the first-aid kit.’

Hanayo sniffled and rubbed at her eyes and nose. ‘Y-Yes!’

The squeal of tyres and the ear-piercing sound of powerful motorcycles making their exit meant the assault was over. Yet Nico didn’t feel there was much to celebrate as she sidled beside Maki and dropped to her knees in the sand.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked, quietly.

‘Call an ambulance, please.’

‘On it.’

After winding on a bandage with expert precision, Maki double-checked her work. ‘That should be good enough.’

‘Rin-chan!’ Hanayo went back to hovering over Rin. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m perfectly fine- ouch!’ Rin winced as she shifted herself and tried to stand up from the ground. With a gentle hand to Rin’s shoulder, Maki eased her back down.

‘Don’t get up, Rin. You’ve broken your foot in several places. I’ve bandaged it up and applied a splint, but you’re going to need to get it plastered up in our hospital.’

Unable to contain herself, Hanayo wrapped her arms around her girlfriend. ‘I was so worried about you…’

Rin nuzzled herself against Hanayo’s neck. ‘Kayo-chin…’

The two shared a tender moment between them.

When she was satisfied that she wouldn’t interrupt, Maki spoke up and drew their attention. ‘One more thing. Rin, Hanayo. You’re both relieved from duty. You are no longer my bodyguards.’

Hanayo gasped. ‘Maki-chan?!’

‘It’s all over now,’ Rin lamented. ‘Now Rin will live the rest of her life with a permnyanent limp, selling her body to make ends meet…’

‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ scoffed Maki, before softening her tone. ‘It’s because I hate seeing my friends get hurt over me. Especially when they have a happy, married life to look forward to. That’s why you’ll both be the housekeepers, taking care of this place while I’m away.’

Hanayo teared up again, touched. ‘Maki-chan…’

‘Maki-chan!’ Rin was so happy she almost jumped up; the three quickly held her back down before she could cause herself more damage. ‘Ow.’

‘So it’s fine if I get hurt instead?’ asked Nico.

‘Exactly,’ said Maki.

Nico rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to retort, before she felt a timid hand clutching at her jacket sleeve. She turned and found Hanayo. ‘Nico-chan,’ she said, as if anticipating Nico’s reaction. ‘I know she can be… a little blunt sometimes, but please look after Maki-chan for us. If something bad happened to her, Rin and I… we wouldn’t…’

Nico reassured her with an arm around her shoulder. ‘Leave it to me, Hanayo.’

The ambulance arrived, and Rin was loaded into the back on a stretcher. She was back in good spirits – almost like she had never been injured in the first place. Though that might have been the painkillers kicking in.

‘Don’t try anything funny with Maki-chan!’ she teased, addressing Nico. ‘She’s still pure and innyacent, you know! After all, she still believes in-‘

Hanayo quickly muffled Rin’s mouth. ‘Rin-chan, no!’

The paramedics closed the ambulance doors and then drove off, leaving Nico and Maki to stand there in bewilderment.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Nico.

Maki shook her head. ‘No idea.’

Things went quiet. Nico took the opportunity to reflect. After all that had happened, there was still a nagging question needing to be answered. ‘Is being attacked by bad guys a usual occurrence?’

‘Of course not,’ answered Maki.

‘Then, why…?’

Nico racked her mind. No motive, no identity. Nothing to go off other than a Kawasaki one of the three left behind. But those were things to check out later. Right now, they were both on the clock for something else.

‘In any case, let’s get in the car, Nishikino-san. We have a mission to get on with.’

As she walked with Nico over to the guest garage, Maki’s jaw dropped as soon as she saw it.

‘You call that thing a car?’

‘Just get the hell in, would you?’

[dynoguard]

NaNoWriMo: Return of the DinoKnights (Day 12)

Day 1 & 2 text is here.

Day 3 is here.

Day 4 is here.

Day 5 is here.

Day 6 is here.

Day 7 is here.

Day 8 is here.

Day 9 is here.

Day 10 is here.

Day 11 is here.

Today’s update is extra long, so I have included a read more break to not completely destroy everyone’s timelines. 

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Jason asked. The dark hallways of Science Tower One reminded him of his father’s video games; a maze of doors, winding hallways, vaulted ceilings made of the same bits, rearranged over and over again. 

“It’s not.” Linn replied. “Not if we’re trying to get back to control. But we’re not.”

“Are you going to eat me?”

Linn stopped. She spun around with a hop. To Jason, she moved like a small bird, deliberate and graceful with bursts of erratic speed. “Eat you? Did that translate right?”

“You say we’re going to find your friend but we’re just wandering in the dark.” Jason said. “And the teeth and claws and stuff.”

“You don’t like my claws?”

“It’s not-” Jason shook his head. “Just, if you’re going to eat me, give me a head start.”

Linn lowered her head but kept her snout forward, her neck curving gracefully, the feathers on her forearms fanning out as she clicked the large, curved, sickle-like claws on each foot against the floor.  “Why would I give you a head start when I could just GOBBLE YOU UP!”

She lunged forward, jaws snapping open, her sharp teeth bared. Jason leapt backward. The back of his left leg caught the edge of the cylindrical decorative planter behind him, sending him tumbling, gracelessly, over a squat fern of what was (until today) an extinct species.  

Jason started to struggle to his feet in a panic when he heard Linn laughing. Her laughter came in bursts, starting as musical giggles then rising to full guffaws before halting with an inhalation of breath that sounded a bit like a goose honking. 

“Are you-” Linn managed to say through her laughter. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Jason said. Linn extended a clawed hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, he took it. It was smooth and scaled and softer than he expected. He could feel her claws against his skin, but as she helped him to his feet he did not feel even a scratch. Even when his weight shifted unexpectedly as he untangled himself from the plant. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. And your face, the look on your face!” Linn laughed. 

Jason flushed with embarrassment, his brown skin turning a darker shade for a moment. He leaned against a smooth section of the hallway wall. “Okay, yeah, if I’d been watching it would have been funny. But if you didn’t lure me down here to eat me-”

“You can talk and you’re not cooked, why would I eat you?” Linn paused. “You do cook your not-talking food, right?” 

“Yeah, we cook our food, most of the time.” Jason replied. “And we don’t eat anything that talks... that we know of.”

“Score two for humanity.” Linn laughed. “If we go to control, the adults are just going to put us in a corner until they figure everything out. So I’m being helpful, we’re going to meet Kyle where he’s going.”

“Where is-” The lights flickered on suddenly. Jason snapped his eyes closed against the sudden burst of light. 

“HEY THERE!-”

Jason turned to see the face of another dinosaur with its jaws wide open. He once against screamed and leapt back. This time Linn was there to catch him.

“-CU-CU-CUSTOMER!” The dinosaur was behind the wall Jason had been leaning on, which he could now see was a panel of black glass. The Dinosovian in the mirror resembled a green Tyrannosaurus Rex, though proportioned more like a human being and wearing a shiny, tailored purple jacket over a bodysuit similar to the one Linn wore.. He seemed vaguely plastic, a bit too angular, and his head plumage was coiffed into a ridiculous crest. “You look like you could use a snack with b-b-b-b-bite!” 

“Hey Mister Bite!” Linn chirped as if the creature were a life-long friend.

“Cu-cu-customer Linn-in-in.” The pitchman seemed to twitch and relocate within the glass as he spoke, An assortment of packages materialized around him, “Good to see you again. What can I g-g-get you?”

“It’s a vending machine?”

“You haven’t heard of Mister B-b-b-bite?” The pitchman turned its attention to Jason. “You must have been living under a r-r-r-ock.”

“Is it broken?” Jason asked. “Why does it talk like that?”

“It’s called sh-sh-showmanship!” Mister Bite replied. 

“Yeah, that’s kinda Mister Bite’s deal.” Linn said, turning her own attention to the screen. “Two Chomp-Chomps, a Drom-sized Splort, and- Jason what do you eat?”

“What?”

“Mostly meat, mostly veg?”

“Mix of both?”

“Make that two Drom-sized Splorts, and a Cerowrap.” 

“Coming right up, Cu-cu-customer Linn!” A series of clanking noises and thumps came from behind the wall as a short, catchy tune filled the air. “C-c--communications are down, your account will be debited once connections are re--re-restored!”

A small door, previously indistinguishable from the rest of the wall, opened, and a tray extended from it. On the tray were a pair of red plastic pitchers with silver writing that the translator told Jason’s mind was Dinosovian for “Splort!” Next two it were what looked like a pair of candy bars in silver wrappers and what appeared to be a burrito made with an unfamiliar leaf in place of a tortilla.  

“Thank you, Mister Bite.” Linn shoved one of the pitchers and the leaf-wrap into Jason’s hands. 

“No Pr-pr-problem! Come back when you need more B-b-bite in your d-d-day!” The plastic pitchman then vanished, the screen going blank, once again becoming a pane of black glass. 

“All this talk of eating you made me hungry.” Linn tore the wrapper off the first ‘Chomp-Chomp’. Jason had expected a candy bar of some stripe, but the package contained a tube of cured meat covered in a breading that was mostly small seeds. She took a bite.

Jason sniffed his wrap. It smelled like lettuce with a hint of mint. Under that lay the smell of unfamiliar spices and a hint of something meaty. “So is Mr. Bite like, artificially intelligent or just prerecorded?”

“Low-end AI, programmed to sell food, make small talk and tell some jokes.” Linn replied. “How do your vending machines work?”

“We push buttons.”

“Just like the ones in Historic Tuskaroon!” Linn chirped. “We went there one year on vacation. I got to shoot a brigand with a crossbow, I was all-”

Linn mimed firing the crossbow, then hopped to where she had aimed it. 

“And he was all-” and acted as though the bolt had struck her in the chest, grabbing the impact with a claw and dramatically flopping to the ground. “Ugh!”

Jason took a wary bite of his wrap. The leaf crunched, and tasted much like it smelled, like minty lettuce. The fillings were warm, something that tasted like almonds but was soft like baked beans, a ground, lightly spiced meat that was vaguely pork-like in texture and flavor, and a savory sauce. “This isn’t bad. What kind of meat is this?”

“Dragonfly.” Linn replied. She took a drink from her pitcher, holding it up and gently pouring into her mouth. “But its totally super-processed.”

"Gross.” Jason said. He took another bite anyway. He took an awkward sip from his pitcher. It was carbonated, like a soda and it tasted like coffee and almond milk with a hint of tropical fruit. 

“Huh...” Linn paused. “I just realized we don’t know if you can eat this stuff.”

“It doesn’t taste poisonous.” Jason said. 

“But you could be allergic or something. Maybe you should just let me-”

Jason noticed that both of Linn’s ‘Chomp Chomp’ wrappers were empty. “We can go back if you’re still hungry.”

“Eh, maybe in a bit.” Linn stopped in her tracks.

“What is it?” 

Linn turned to the wall on their left. A heavy door large enough to drive a car through was stuck, half-open. Or, more accurately, half of the door and a section of the wall was missing, Beyond the empty gap was a large, dark room. 

“This is Project Zero.” 

“I don’t come from your time, please explain.” Jason replied. 

“All the Science Towers have cutting edge science projects, some are classified. One in five dinos here work on Project Zero but no one talks about it.” She stepped through the gap, her tail swishing behind her.

“Wait, you said it was top secret.”

She stuck her head out of the door. “Which means if we’re going to find out what it is, we need to do it now, when no one is around to catch us.”

--

“Monsters! You have monsters just wandering around and you didn’t think to tell us?” Sheriff Horne glared at the human Gloria Anning. She and Sagan were the only ones in the control room when she finally made it up stairs. 

“Describe the monster... was it furry with big claws, yay big?” Gloria indicated about five feet with her hand, then mimed a pair of antlers with her hands “Or was it four legged with big horns?” 

“No, not an animal, a monster.” Horne seemed even larger and more powerful in her shiny blue armor and her frustration was palpable. “A monster, capital M, emphasis on the ‘onster’, it was like a living shadow full of purple lightning,”

“We don’t... have anything like that.” Sagan said.

“No. We don’t.” Gloria said. “Tell me more, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Horne recounted her journey to the vehicle bay in detail, omitting exactly how much the chittervoles had startled her.  

“Is it possible this ‘specter’ could be something you picked up on your way to the present?” Gloria asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not-” Sheriff Horne sighed. “I’m not good with the science. I know how to operate stuff-”

She slapped her armored hand against her chest plate for emphasis. “-but Linn’s the smart egg in the family.”

“And she’s wandering around with my son right now.” 

“That’s not good.” Horne said. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t know you, or your species. For all I know he could eat her.”

“He is a teenager.” Gloria interjected. 

Both Horne and Sagan looked at her.

“I’m kidding,” Gloria said. “I’m pretty sure we have more in common than we don’t. Which is is why instead of returning here now that power is on, everyone has wandered off and left us to worry.”

“She’s right.” Sagan said. “So do we wait here for them to come back or go looking for them.”

“Kyle and Zara are scientists at the top of their fields.” Sheriff Horne replied. “And Brach’s just as smart and curious.”

“So we-” Gloria began.

-better find them before they accidentally teleport us into the sun or unleash killer robots on the world or turn air into fire or something.” Horne said as she stomped toward the door to Section 2. 

[miracufic]

Something Fixed, Something New

Original idea by @miraculousturtle.  Many thanks to @miraculousturtle​, @gigiree, and @clairelutra​ for helping out!

Summary: Adrien---quite by accident---finds out about Marinette's side job as a seamstress.  Things snowball rather quickly from there.

"Adrien," Nathalie says, her tone patient and level, "you have three of these shirts.  Your father knows the brand's main designer, and we had a business lunch with the brand's owner last Wednesday.  There is no practical reason why we cannot simply get you another shirt."

Adrien clutches the shirt, its sleeve hanging limply from a few threads, to his chest, his eyes wide and watery, his lower lip protruding.

"But it's my favorite shirt," Adrien says.

Nathalie blinks at him.  "You have," she says, "two other shirts that are exactly like that one.  How can you even tell the difference between them?"

"This one has a bent collar," Adrien says, pointing to the spot.

Nathalie just manages to keep herself from throwing her hands up in frustration.  "Okay," she says.  "Just pack it up in a bag or something, I'll get your driver and find a local tailor's shop."

Adrien's expression flares into a brilliant, happy grin.  He catches Nathalie around the waist with a quick hug before he runs off, shouting a quick "thank you!" over his shoulder.

Nathalie takes in a deep breath and heaves it out in a sigh.  The Agreste men were ridiculous.

"Sir?  Yes sir.  I'll get on that immediately, sir."  Nathalie hangs up and pinches the bridge of her nose while Adrien looks on curiously.

"Nathalie?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"What was that?"

"Your father," she says. "He wants to make some changes to the plan for Tuesday's event."

She glances up as the Gorilla pulls into a streetside parking spot, stopping the engine and engaging the parking brake with a racheting sound.

"You'd better go in by yourself," she says.  "Your father wants this done immediately.  Don't take too long."

"Yes, Nathalie," Adrien says. He pops open the door and scurries out of the car and into the shop.

Adrien hears a bell make a tiny, desultory clatter as the door swings shut behind him.  He looks around at---a narrow, small little shop filled almost wall-to-wall with racks and clothing maybe three or four decades out of style, most of it threadbare, but in good condition, all of them covered in clear protective plastic.  Some have little paper tags with indecipherable scribbles on them; probably order numbers and other such things.  Rough industrial carpeting scrapes against his shoes as he takes a step forward.

At the end of the room is a particleboard counter, the wood warped and peeling away in one corner.  Behind that is a wall with a curtain door.

"Hello?" Adrien calls. The walls of cloth drink up the noise.

He just barely manages to suppress a shudder.  This place may have been the closest to the house, but holy crap was it claustrophobic; just the leaden sound of his own breathing in here was starting to be a little panic-inducing.  Best to get this over with.

He walks smartly to the abandoned counter and looks around.  A rapid but dull thk-thk-thk-thk from the back indicates that the shop isn't wholly empty of life, but it otherwise might've been a mausoleum.  He shivers.

"Hello?" Adrien calls again.

The thk-thk-thk-thk doesn't pause.  Adrien upgrades to a shout, and while the sound pauses briefly, still no one comes.

He looks around the counter and spies a silver bell; he hammers on it, producing a loud DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING that apparently gets through to whoever is working in the back.  The noise stops.  Someone says something, the words indistinct but probably something on the riff of "go see who that is".

Someone replies, the voice higher-pitched and almost ramrod straight with helpful perkiness.  “Right away, mumblemumblemumble” or something.

And, a second later, Marinette comes through the curtain door with a professional customer-service smile.

“Good afternoon, sir, how may I help you---“

Her expression freezes as she sees Adrien, who after a moment’s contemplation decides on a sheepish wave of greeting.

“Hey, Mari---“

Marinette reaches forward, her expression still frozen in shock and panic, grabs him by the shirt, and bodily hauls him over the counter.  He lands in a heap next to her.

“Holy crap,” he coughs as Marinette hunkers down next to him, her hands over her mouth.

“---oh shit I just assaulted Adrien Agreste---“ Marinette babbles.

“How are you that strong?  You can’t weigh more than what, forty-five, fifty kilos soaking wet.”

“---I’m going to jail for the rest of my life and they’re never going to let me see Mama or Papa or Alya or my sewing machine again---“

“Like, cheese and crackers you picked me up like I was nothing.”

“---and then they’re going to charge me with high treason---“

“Uh, Marinette?  Mari?  You okay?”

Marinette refocuses on him.  “Oh no.  Ohnoohnoohno.  Are you okay I am so sorry I didn’t mean to do that---“

“It’s fine, I’m okay,” Adrien says, sitting upright.  “To tell the truth that was pretty awesome.”

Marinette brightens, almost literally. “You think so?”

“Yeah, of course,” Adrien says. “Like, that was some action movie stuff right there.  If the Gorilla ever retires and I need a new bodyguard I’ll be sure to recommend you to my father.”

“Maybe take a raincheck on that?” Marinette says, smiling hesitantly.

“Sure.”  Adrien stands slowly, wincing slightly.  “I take it you work here?”

“Oh, yeah,” Marinette says, springing to her feet.  “Part-time.  The material I wanted was starting to get a little expensive, so Mama and Papa said that I was going to need to start paying for it myself, and there was an opening here, and well, here I am.”

“Why don’t you do commissions?” Adrien says.  “I know there are a lot of seamstresses who make a pretty penny off of cosplayers and people like that, uh, not that I’d have any experience with that---“

“You don’t have to lie about that, I saw you at Comic Con last year,” Marinette says with an absent air as she strokes her chin thoughtfully.  “Cosplayers, huh?  I’ve never really thought about that but that might work.”  She comes back to the present.  “Anyways, what were you here for?”

“Oh, right.”  Adrien looks around him, then leans back over the counter and fishes for his bag.  “I got my sleeve caught and nearly tore it off.  I was hoping to get it repaired.”

Marinette purses her lips in thought as Adrien hands her the shirt, studying it with a professional eye. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be too much trouble.  Don’t you have a dozen of these shirts, though, I see you wearing them all the time.”

“This one’s my favorite.”

Marinette considers this for a second, then shrugs.  “All right, sure.  It’s too late in the day for our same-day service, but it’ll be done by tomorrow morning when we open for sure.”

“Excellent,” Adrien says.  “How much?”

“Nine-ninety-nine,” Marinette says.

Adrien pulls a pair of five-euro notes from his wallet and hands them to Marinette.  “Thank you so much,” he says.

“No problem,” Marinette replies, “it’s my job.”

“Still,” Adrien says, giving her a smile that she returns, “thank you.”

Marinette lets him out from behind the counter.  “So, see you at school tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he says.

“Oh,” Marinette says, her expression flickering to one of horror, “please don’t tell anyone I work here, especially Chloe, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Wait,” Adrien says, gesturing to the counter, “was that why you pulled me over like that?  ‘cause you thought I’d tell her?”

“That was mostly the panic, honestly,” Marinette says.  “My brain just kinda, uh, locked up and decided that was a good option.”  Her thumb goes to her mouth, and her teeth find her thumbnail and chew as she looks down at their feet.

“Well it was a pretty awesome option,” Adrien says.

Marinette’s eyes flick up towards his, and she smiles slightly.  “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “Hey, if Chat Noir ever decides to quit the superhero business, maybe you could be Ladybug’s next sidekick.”

“Partner,” Marinette says, her features petrifying, her gaze suddenly flinty.  “Her partner.”

“Right, my bad,” Adrien says, “you’d be her partner, of course.”

The door creaks open.  Nathalie leans in, glances around, fastens her gaze on Adrien, says “Hurry up, we need to go,” and leaves.  The bell clatters noisily.

“Coming, Nathalie,” Adrien calls. He sighs and turns to Marinette. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow then?”

“Sure,” Marinette says.

Adrien waves goodbye to her as he leaves and gets into the car.

“When will it be ready to pick up?” Nathalie says as the Gorilla shuts the door behind Adrien and climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Tomorrow morning, they said,” Adrien says.

“You have school and piano,” Nathalie says.  The car pulls away from the curb and merges smoothly into traffic.  “I’ll send your driver around to pick it up.”

“Thanks, Nathalie.”

Adrien shuffles tiredly into his room and collapses face-down onto his bed.

So today had been more exhausting than anticipated.  Exceedingly so.  But at least he’d be able to rest, relax, get some proper sleep---wait, fuck, they had that test on Friday that he had to study for, and patrol with his Lady later.

He groans and rolls onto his back, and hears the crinkling rustle of crushed plastic.

He frowns, sits up, and looks behind him.

His shirt, of course, the Gorilla had, well, Nathalie had said that she would send the Gorilla around to pick it up this morning.  Adrien picks it up and tears off the plastic, holding his shirt up to the light for inspection.

Good as new.  And it smells as though Marinette had had it laundered, too, which was a nice touch---

A bakery.

A black panther.

His Lady.

The memory flashes through his skull like a lightning bolt, bright and unavoidable and too fast for reaction outside of an after-the-fact flinch.

His Lady.

Marinette.  The smell, hers, exactly like---

His Lady.

Holy fuck.

He finds himself breathing in the vaguely floral scent again, his shirt pressed up against his face, and quickly puts it down.  Okay, so Marinette’s superhero---he wants to laugh, how appropriate was that, his Lady---moves with that whole “drag him over the counter” thing under the effects of brainlock were a little more understandable now.

His smile freezes.  Wait.  Shit.

She was going to be furious with him, they’d promised to not reveal their identities after all.  But he had to---

Wait.

What if he---

Nathalie tries to keep the corner of her eye from twitching.

“This is the third shirt you’ve torn or otherwise damaged in a week,” she says.  “What is with you?”

“Bad luck?” Adrien suggests.

“Really.”  She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.  “You know, if you’re just doing this to see that girl in the shop there are easier ways of going about this.”

“No I’m not.”

Nathalie raises an eyebrow at him.  Adrien contrives to look as innocent as he can, and mostly gets just to around “innocent as a cat who’d just been witnessed knocking a vase off of a high counter“.

“Very well, I’ll fetch your driver,” Nathalie says.

“No need, I’ll walk, it’s not far,” Adrien says quickly.

“You will walk with your driver,” Nathalies says.  “I am already getting questions about your sudden and unexplained expenses, and I will not have you gallivanting off someplace without being able to tell your father exactly where you are and with whom.”

To Adrien’s suddenly crestfallen expression she adds, “he’ll just be outside.”

“Oh, all right, Nathalie,” Adrien says.

“And if I were you,” she says as he turns to leave, “I would come up with a better excuse than ‘my clothes need repair’.  Maybe say---yes, maybe say that you are collecting old clothing to donate to charity, and that you want them repaired first.”

Adrien considers this for a minute, his head cocked to the side.  That,” he says slowly, “is an amazing idea.  Thank you, Nathalie!  Oh, wait---“ he pauses in mid-run “---do you know any good charities that I could donate them to?”

“I’ll compile a list,” Nathalie says.  “Your driver will meet you at the front door.”

“Okay,” Adrien says. “Thank you again, Nathalie!”

Nathalie tries to keep from smiling as Adrien resumes his sprint and mostly succeeds.

The Agreste men really were ridiculous.

“---and then he started coming in with all these old clothes and after a while I asked him what was going on why was he bringing in all this stuff especially since most of this doesn’t fit and y’know some of them are women’s clothes not that I’d judge him if he wore women’s clothes I bet he’d look fantastic but anyways he said that he wanted me to repair them so that he could donate them to charity and he’s honestly such a wonderful person and---“

Alya, with her chin resting on the heel of her palm, nods absently at appropriate moments as Marinette whispers excitedly to her, wondering about two things.  First, when and how Marinette had gotten an apparently infinite lung capacity?  Second, why did Adrien’s ears seem to be edging towards the point where they might accidentally set fire to his hair?

A third question joins the gathering throng when Adrien abruptly stands, grabs Marinette’s hand, and with a hasty apology directed towards Alya and Nino, drags her out of the room.

“Marinette,” Adrien says as he finds an empty classroom and takes them both inside.  “Look, I’m sorry, but I need to confess a couple things.  I haven’t been entirely honest with you, and I’m not as good a person as you think I am.”

“Adrien?” Marinette says, her eyes wide.

“First, I’m not entirely doing this for charity,” he says.  I’ve also been doing it so that I could see you at work, because you’re smart and funny and really cool, and because you’re good company, and because I think you’re really skilled and passionate and I think that’s amazing.”

Marinette, steadily heading towards spontaneous combustion herself, manages only a steady “uhhhhhhhh”.

“Second, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”  Adrien takes a deep breath and places his hands on Marinette’s shoulders.  “I know that you’re Ladybug.”

Marinette stops breathing.

“I know that you’re Ladybug because and I get that this is going to sound super creepy so please don’t judo flip me into a desk or break my arms or anything but when you gave me back my shirt it smelled like you and then I realized that it smelled exactly like when we were hiding out in your parents’ bakery back when Alya’s dad got turned into a supervillain.”

“I,” Marinette says weakly, “I brought it home and laundered it there.  We only do dry-cleaning at the shop and you didn’t order the dry-cleaning service.”

She blinks and regains a little composure, then promptly loses it again.  “Wait, we?  Wait, you know what I smell like?”

“It’s nice,” Adrien says quickly, “you smell nice and uh, I said we because I happen to be---” well it wasn’t as though he hadn’t swan-dived right across that line about five sentences ago “---I’m Chat Noir.  And I know you said that we shouldn’t reveal our identities but I’m sorry but I’d already figured yours out and it just didn’t seem fair and also you just kept saying all this nice stuff about me and I didn’t know how to react and now that I think about it this may have been a little bit of an overreaction.”

Marinette stares at him blankly.

“Um, Marinette?”

“You’re my Chat?” she asks quietly.

Something sticks fast in Adrien’s throat at that; he manages a nod.

Marinette catches him in a tight hug that Adrien, after a stunned second, returns.

“I’m glad it’s you,“ she says quietly.

“So---” Adrien stops and swallows the lump in his throat “---so am I.”

[deltaengineering]

Spring Anime 2017 Part 1: woke up late

This time I prepared so I could get to the procrastinating right with the first post! Yay! Let’s get this show on the road.

See also:

• spring anime 2017 part 2: girlfriendship is magic

• spring anime 2017 part 3: comfy and easy to wear

• spring anime 2017 bonus round: things you already knew were good

Alice to Zouroku

So get this, a pretty girl with psychic superweapon powers escapes from a lab she’s been in her whole life and now has to adapt to the real world with the help of a guy she stumbles upon, all while being chased by her superweapon former friends. But in a shocking twist, this is actually better than Elfen Lied! Not being written by someone as brutally incompetent as Lynn Okamoto is a start, but the real change here is that our heroine is less murder machine and more genuinely cute, and more importantly the guy she ends up with is not a harem ringleader dorklord, but a grumpy elderly florist. Yeah, we’re skipping the recent trend of dadfeel anime and diving headfirst into granddad feels (I don’t know if aging otaku are quite old enough to fully self-insert yet, but the same principle applies). It’s a low hanging fruit, but that’s what makes it work; a deliberate, contemplative pace and delightfully whimsical music by TO-MAS also help. So far, so good, were it not for the fact that this is only one aspect of the show. Of course a show like this would have an action half as well, and that one’s pretty garbage. Not only is it directed with zero impact or excitement, it also relies on horrible CG a lot - I really don’t want to be reminded of Hand Shakers this quickly again, thank you very much. Plus, it runs with a Alice in Wonderland metaphor, which is baby’s first literary reference and doesn’t bode well about the intellectual ambitions of the project. So we have one half that’s admittedly effective, but also very predictable and which desperately needs to go somewhere to pay off. The other half just plain sucks and has little chance to improve. I think I’ll give this one a few more chances to sort out its priorities, but it’s definitely not a sure thing.

Busou Shoujo Machiavellianism

A cocky guy walks into a school full of pretty girls with weapons who have managed to sissify all the dudes by forcing them to crossdress. He then proceeds to troll them with his rugged charm. You know, it’s really not that easy to offend me but damn this show is trying. Apart from bottom-tier harem crap setup, this show also looks like ass and is tremendously boring; a few well done action cuts do not in fact excuse “fights” that mostly consist of exposition about special attacks, or terminally uninspired direction. Macchiavellism is the worst of shounen fightmens crossed with the worst of harem LNs, plus some of the worst jokes bad anime comedy can come up with. It’s not even audacious enough in its badness to boggle the mind; I could watch this if I was interested in adding another 1/10 to my MAL, but that’s about all I can appreciate about it.

Frame Arms Girl

Speaking of unholy combinations, here’s Gundam Build Fighters x Rozen Maiden x Strike Witches: A girl stumbles into a sentient mecha musume model kit that spends its time explaining the technical details of model building to her and attracts other model kits that want to fight. It’s an ad for model kits, what do you expect. There’s no characters, the plot is utterly uninteresting, the action’s bad, it looks subpar to bad, and the only high point is how brazenly it reads to you from the manual.

Gin no Guardian

Here’s your latest Chinese webcomic adaptation from your friends at Haoliners Animation League (Shanghai) Inc., whose output has been asymptotically approaching the quality level of a bad Japanese cartoon for years now: Closer than ever, but still not quite there. Maybe they should stop picking bad webcomics with incomprehensible nonsense plots as source material, just sayin’. So this is about a dude who beats up CG zombies in the spirit world but the actual story is how he got there? Or something? It manages to look barely alright and even has some visually striking design work, but its half-length run time prevents it from forming any semblance of coherence and I’m not about to ask for further clarification.

Oushitsu Kyoushi Haine

In a vaguely 18th century Germanic kingdom, a grown ass man with the body of a ten year old and a snarky disposition is hired to become the tutor of an instaharem of fabulous princes. I really don’t get who this is for; obviously the harem is straight out of a PSP otome dating sim, but it’s lacking the obvious self-insert dimwitted main girl, and no, it isn’t gay romance either. Even though it’s a comedy, that aspect does not seem to be played for outright parody. The source material is running in GFantasy, a shounen title (but not one as specifically elementary schooler-focused as Jump, it also carries fujo favorites such as Black Butler). Dubious provenance aside, Haine is moderately funny if nothing else, mainly due to the deadpan reactions of the main character to these ridiculous dreamboats. It just also drags more than a little, with long conversations that aren’t very entertaining all the time. It’s watchable compared to a lot of the stuff out this season, but I remain unconvinced.

Rokudenashi Majutsu Koushi to Akashic Records

After Macchiavellism already obliterated the battle harem bingo, here’s our next winner. The setup’s more or less the same and in some respects it’s even more formulaic (the school is actually a magic school for magic people, princesses, duels, &c), but Akashic Record is not quite as odious simply by focusing on being a comedy first and foremost and pulling that off at least on a technical level - it has good visual execution and comedic timing. The question is just how much credit you want to give it for that when the jokes themselves still suck, and that’s of course ignoring the entire setup being Light Novel as all fuck. Kinda seems familiar actually, because this is not entirely unlike to what KonoSuba did to the isekai genre, and people keep trying to tell me that that was totally great. Well, go watch this one then, motherfuckers.

Sagrada Reset

But there’s always the other kind of light novel, the one where high schoolers talk about life, people and the world. Think Bakemonogatari or OreGairu. Sagrada Reset wants a slice of that pie and starts by stealing the magical realism conceit from classic™ visual novel Wind ~A Breath of Heart~: There’s a remote town in Japan where everyone has superpowers, but if they leave the town they instantly forget about it. Oops, i guess I just spoiled Wind’s midgame, but I have to since Sagrada Reset puts this stuff right upfront because it has to discuss technicalities (at length) to make its plot work. Yeah, that’s how I like my magical realism, thoroughly explained and conceived by people who should write wikis, not fiction. There’s a girl who can reset time, but only once per arbitrary period of time and also including herself, which means she only finds out she already did it once it doesn’t work again. So that’s pretty useless, except there’s a guy whose superpower is having his memory unaffected by this. They have to work together to solve... some problems, I suppose. This whole idea seems to have potential in a JoJo subplot sort of way, but it’s completely sunk by the way the thing is written, since apparently the writer has never met a human being in his life. It’s entirely made of these pseudo-deep highschool stoner philosophy conversations presented in a lifeless inflection by people who stand around like robots on battery saver mode. This seems to be intentional (at least the term “robot” is thrown around a couple of times, which is certainly ominous), but it also makes for an excruciating and interminable watching experience.

Sakura Quest

Since Sakura Quest was announced, I have been gleefully throwing water on the hype of people who expected this to be the next Shirobako. After all, how likely is it for lightning to strike twice, especially considering Mizushima is not in the director’s seat? Surely it was all just wishful thinking, I want a S2 of Shirobako as much as everyone but I just don’t trust anime. Well consider me fucking told, since apparently among the parties wishing for more Shirobako is P.A. Works, and unlike the anitwitterati they can make it happen. The actual brand name seems to be reserved for a Mizushima project, but I would have no trouble believing that Sakura Quest is a spinoff about Aoi’s sister in the boonies; Shirobako Sunshine, if you will. The initial setup is mirrored here; Yoshino is not a young professional starting her dream job, but a young professional unable to score a dream job (or any job) so she settles for a random one she’s very skeptical of, but will undoubtedly learn to love. Apart from that, well, it’s Shirobako: The positive tone, the large cast of likeable oddballs, the relatable writing about post-highschool problems, and it even looks completely identical. I’ll still be realistic about it: Shirobako isn’t great for what its ideas were, but for how thoroughly it delivered in the long run, and this is by no means guaranteed to also happen with Sakura Reset Quest. For an episode 1 though, it’s like a dream come true, and P.A. are setting themselves up for seasonal double domination with this and Uchouten Kazoku S2.

Souryo to Majiwaru Shikiyoku no Yoru ni

Enough gushing, here’s 5 minutes of porn. Okay, it’s josei porn so there may still be gushing involved if you know what I mean, nyuk nyuk. Er, sorry about that. Sooooo there’s a sexually frustrated woman who meets her school crush who’s now a priest, and then they fuck. With a staff made up mostly of (non-josei, but hey) hentai OVA veterans, there is really only one way this could go. I appreciate the brazenness as usual, but I really don’t know how much steamy harlequin romance tailored to TV broadcast standards I want to watch.

Tsugumomo

I’ve seen some warnings about Tsugumomo based on its source material which is a manga with 1. a very high level of art quality and 2. content that has been described as “makes To-Love Ru Darkness look family friendly”. This may explain why it has not been licensed. It doesn’t explain why this first episode is fairly tame though; sure, it’s very much an ecchi comedy, but you get those from time to time and Tsugumomo is not any more raunchy than what I’m used to seeing (and it accomplishes this even without obvious BD-advert censoring). That incidentally also removes any reason to watch it: The plot is as basic “guy gets magical girlfriend for purposes of fights and/or walking in on her naked in the bath” from 15 years ago as they come, and it’s suspiciously well animated, but not well enough for that to be a selling point. Maybe it will get real skeevy eventually, I won’t be around to find out.

Warau Salesman NEW

Warau Salesman starts strong with ultra cool, Saul Bass-inspired opening credits, but that’s about all it has to offer. It’s based on a “black comedy” manga from the 60s by one of the Doraemon authors, and oh boy can you tell. Not only are the character designs 60s-tastic (so at least the Osomatsu-san fujos can schlick to something while they wait for the S2 of that), but so are the sensibilities: The titular salesman goes around tempting frustrated office workers with doing something moderately irresponsible, such as drinking in your lunch break or spending above your means, and then ruins their life when they actually do it. It’s like Twilight Zone written by your HR department. In the 60s. This stuff would have been outdated even in 1989, when it was animated for the first time – hence the “NEW”. I don’t know, it just seems mean-spirited, obvious and pointless, and most importantly I put the “black comedy” in quotes because in addition to not being very black, it’s not funny in any way, and unlike regular anime comedy I can’t even see what’s supposed to be funny. 

[beowulfs-booty-call]

1 13 15 30

Had to listen to Studio Killers for this ask because I can just feel the maturity for this one.

1. describe your idea of a perfect date

Imagine, me and someone at a café somewhere. Maybe the city, maybe their hometown, maybe even my own spot.

The place is warm, the weather is slightly cold, but not too cold you can’t wear just a flannel and jeans (Wow, Beo, real easy subtle there.) but we just sit inside this real cozy cafe, its all old school, there’s jazz by George Benson playing like this

We’re locking eyes, me and them. The drinks are warm, but they’re not scalding, I’m writing in my little travel journal about the place, about the atmosphere, so on, maybe even doodles of the person. 

There’s light jokes strewn here and there, there’s nothing stiff about it, there’s fingers graze across mine on accent, and we both recline back out of fluster and second hand embarrassment. The person and I both apologize, but I tell ‘em I don't mind, it was warm. Slowly, we put our hands together and we can't get them off, we’re holding hands together, sipping our drinks and just talking about life, our hopes and dreams, the good stuff chai lattes were made for. 

The song’s picking up pitch, they know I’m tapping to the beat as the rain starts coming down. It’s light, it’s cool, and I’ve no umbrella with me, just me, my backpack, and my wallet/keys/phone. I gesture out to the rain, they nod.

We don’t know where we’re going, but we take our drinks and dash out in the rain like children. The song’s stuck in my head, like some big montage in a musical number, we hit up merchant shops, gemstone and oddities stores, my eyes bug out when I noticed a skull box or a cursed mirror for sale.

The entire me and that person don’t let go of each other’s hands, they’re stuck and we don’t give a damn. I roll up my sleeves to buckle down to nab us something to eat but its just comedic, I flip up, the person can’t help but laugh because I messed up an order (like I ordered chicken but the person brings a lobster dinner fit for two) and things are okay, I’ve nothing on my calendar or scheduled so it’s an adventure. 

And we end it at midnight, watching the stars and moon, my flannel’s all roughed up from some of the coffee they drank, and my shirt’s beginning to smell like them, because we’re cuddling on the grass on a hill overlooking the moon and clouds. My collars all wrinkled, I have a smudge of food still on my cheek that’s smudged off, and my ears are all red. 

We whisper sweet little nothings to each other, and its a big old debate whether or not to really get up. When we do, though, it’s still the fact that the night’s here and people have to sleep.

How we get home, no one knows, but we do, wether by truck or train. And we part, the person and I, maybe a hug, maybe a kiss on the cheek, but I feel something slipped into my pocket, or in my hands, or even when I leave I check for my keys and find something.

A little thing to remind myself of that date, maybe the receipt of the cafe where someone scrawled “You two look great together...!” or maybe a trinket from a shop.

All I know is, I’d never forget being someone’s adventure that day, or being someone’s travel partner.

13. what is a misconception you had about lgb people before you realized you were one?

I actually didn’t think there was the LGBT until about a good well number of years back. Yes, I knew about drag queens and other themes of the LGBT com. and such, but man, when I was younger I was fostered on the “You’re going to hell if you like the same gender or want to be the gender you felt you should have been born as” and Ironically when around the same time I became a witch, I realized the community was there.

You see, I knew about the community, but not as the official term, much less, the community was more than few people. It was terrible feeling that way, because I was in the closet for so very long. It was terrible being yelled at for crossing my legs or accidentally saying, “Well, I think you look good, so, I like you like that.” to some guy in high school and having people gawk at you, or being called a woman by my own father because of my voice and because I gestured with my hands.

My sexuality was questioned a lot, because, I was rather vague about myself, I had my interests, and while I had my life in front of me, many times I felt alone because of it. Was there people who felt the same way as me? Were there others who felt it was fine falling in love with a man or woman?

Are my feelings valid?

I made the mistake of believing there weren’t people out there who supported my life or my being, because it was so easy seeing how we were treated because of it. We had the episode of the Golden Girls where Blanche’s brother was gay and he was the butt of a few jokes, but also Blanche’s rage until Sophia stepped in, we were and are the butt of jokes at times, including on tv and cartoons in implications, but we were there. And it hurt. I felt it was awful how we were restricted for being who we were, and I felt worse for really thinking there wasn’t people who wasn’t like me because of the way I feel about people.

But, that mistake belied that in the end, we weren't represented as much as we are now, and still need to be. Kids need that support and representation I for one, didn't receive until nowadays because it causes them to worry, as well as mistake the heteronormative way we grow up as the be all - end all, and that scared the shiitake mushrooms out of me back then. Your parents could love you, but would they love after you finally had the guts to say, “Hey, mom and dad, remember how there’s always the notion that a man and woman need to get married? Yeah, well, I as a guy, love both genders / Men.” is the fear most gay kids would have, and vice versa for Lesbians as well. Even worse for my trans peeps who felt uncomfortable with the gender they were assigned with / wanted to become the person they wanted to be (If my language isn’t appropriate, please do tell me, and I’ll tailor it as needed by you!). Like, it’s so easy to feel alone when you were never really represented as anything but, “Oh, xyz? Oh you mean (Insert trope like Lesbians being written off / flamboyant gay men / crossdressing as a “joke” trope)” And you get put off by it so much you try thinking, “maybe I’m wrong” or “Maybe, I will go to hell, because this is bad.” And it’s not. At. All.

15. (if attracted to more than one gender) do you have different “types” for different genders?

I somehow knew this was coming so, *Cracks knuckles* let’s get to it, Sailor Style™ :

I’m a huge Sailor Venus fan, so, I pride myself on being able to love many people and “types” of people, of both guys and gals. 

Guys: BIG. THICC. MEN. 

LIKE

GIVE ME YOUR HAIRY, BIG, BELLIED AND SKINNY AND EVEN BUFF MEN WHO NEED SOME LOVING AND I AM HERE. 

I love thicc guys because, well, I love the idea of having someone bigger than me on some aspects. That said, I’m kinda a big guy myself at 178 pounds and at 6′2 (I believe is the last I scaled myself or an inch off) and I also don’t mind someone smaller so to speak. Really, I’m the sort who falls for all kinds of men, because, I seriously love boys. 

But I also love guys who know about themselves well enough too. I’m the guy who wants to share himself in a relationship. Not in the sense that I’m making it all about me, but in a relationship, imo, you’re sharing both of yourselves in it. Interests, love, commitment, it’s all there. I want to grow as a person and lover, and I want to share that growing person with someone. If you can’t handle that, you’d best find someone else, unfortunately. 

Also, Daddy types are my thing too, I’m leaning onto the archetype too, lol, but that’s a different story all together. My thing is, if a guy is big, bonus points, he got a belly? Extra points. He got abs and or pecs to die for? He’s got me all the way there. Hairy? Love it. No hair? Just as nice. 

Scared no one likes their body because they’re “too” (Skinny, big, etc etc) I’ll kiss them fears away. Confident in his life choices or isn’t as much and wants to better himself? Sign me tf up.

He can pay for my college ed because I can satisfy him? Fuck me up then.

Also like, jocks and bodybuilders are also kind of a thing for me with the way I train, but my guy, consider really nerdy guys who are like, big gentle giants and are really BIG and like dogs. Yes.

Pretty boys just don’t do it for me though.

They just don’t.

Girls: Really, I just love girls who are girls. Women are already kinda amazing on their own, so, like, the bar isn’t set up at all because in general I feel like if a girl is ready to share herself and sharing myself with her, we’re really fine.

If someone can match me in terms of books / literature, I give bonus points, but I just love girls who are confident in themselves. Like,

“I can make the fucking world burn, but you’d be damned if you cross me.”?

Yeah, I’m their biggest fan.

Really. Big women, small women, girls who read a lot, girls who exercise a lot, it doesn’t really “matter” per say because in the end, I know that I really do like them just being, well, themselves. It’s vague af compared to guys, and I apologize for that, but I lean more to guys, and girls wise, I’m more into the type of girl who can rock the world, and me, to the very core. So, when it comes to girls, I’m more submissive because I simply like girls who could really take me for a spin so to speak. (Plus I’m weak for women who could legit you know, suplex a guy.) 

Realistically, strong women, girls who have no problem with a little meat on their bones or rolls on their bodies (We all have em tbh), really romantic girls.

Like, Allura is a great example of the type of girl I’m into. She’s strong, she’s intellectual about the galaxy and in the world as a whole, but she’s got purpose. Make her chubby, and she’s still the same Altean princess who can kick ass. Make her buff, and she can literally squat using the Paladins. It doesn’t change that I’d admire her still.

Apologies if it’s not more defined...!

Non Binary: Really, I can’t say per say, but really, both genders apply too. Like, if you are big, small, tall or short, it doesn’t matter. I’d still love someone who’s confident in themselves. It’s hard really explaining my types, because, I have never really organized them, so much as think of them. But, I’ll still fall in love with your scars, your rolls, your arms, legs, everything some way or another. I really do pride myself over that fact, small as it may seem to some.

Being able to lift me over her shoulders and bench press me or squat is a huge af bonus point award for both / all genders tbh.

30. what is a piece of advice for people who may not be in a safe place to express their sexuality

Know you’re not alone!!!I CAN’T STRESS THIS ENOUGH!!!

Don’t be like me feeling icky because people told him being gay / bi was “Icky and sinful UwU”. Don’t be me who stayed up at night feeling like throwing up because I felt if I dreamed of falling in love with a man, I’d burn in hell. Don’t also ever feel guilty for looking at a guy or gal, and thinking, “Damn, I’d totally love to wake up in the morning next to them.”

(We can’t prove hell really exists, so, don’t also be indoctrinated to that idea either, kiddos.)

 And, don't ever feel that you are gross because you are different. Celebrate it instead and be you when you’re able to, even if it’s online only, or even alone only. Those small celebrations are what makes life worth it.

Also, do find others who are LGBT too, because it HELPS, even if they’re only allies, being able to talk about things are all you need to worry at times, you don’t have to be out, but to your friends who understand? That’s a big relief imo.

Also, because I’m in one myself rn, don't be afraid to subtly express yourself the way you want to. Fashion wise, it’s slightly easier, words, “eh”, but if that means you watching a good LGBT repping show at night with earbuds, don’t even think a second thought and you tell me how it was.

You watch those shows that make you happy, and you do the same, but make sure to always look over your shoulder, always have a tab on yourself, and never give into the pressures people place on you. Never give the pressures keeping you back any chance. Online may be a safe space for you, maybe, the only one there is, but know, later on in life, you will be free to finally be you, and when you do?

I’ll be so proud of you. So, if you can’t be yourself outside the computer, don’t fret over it. You’ve a right to vent out to someone, much less, a therapist or even on your blog, but do right to yourself. If that means cutting off some people, do it. If that means not supporting their beliefs, by all means.

+ Don’t ever, ever, ever try to deny yourself if you really know yourself. You are your best friend in that scenario, because if you’re like me, you don’t really have anyone else near you or in front of yourself. So take care of yourself. Mentally, physically, and spiritually. And do not ever think for one second that you don’t belong or you don’t deserve to exist or live because you feel you are comfortable with someone of the same gender, or because you feel you should be yourself but haven't had the opportunity to do so because of society / your parents / other toxic stuff. 

Instead, do your best, take it all in, cry if you can or want to when you’re alone, and push on and be the best fucking you there’ll ever be. Because honeys, if you can’t love yourself, who the hell is gonna love somebody else without some real self love? So be proud, be you on the inside, and keep on fighting till you’re away and ready to be you. You’re gonna be a wonderful person when you’re away from all this mess some day in the future. And I can’t wait to see the person you become / are, that day.